


The Boy in the Silk Shirt

by Ertal77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Slash, Student!Sherlock, Teacher!John, Teenlock, mentions of rape (not to any main character)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1370698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ertal77/pseuds/Ertal77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is the new chemistry teacher at Greenwood Secondary School. In this new facet of his life, he will find some unexpected issues, mainly coping with a genius pupil and a hideous crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [El chico de la camisa de seda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667221) by [Ertal77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ertal77/pseuds/Ertal77)



> Please read the tags before reading... There WILL BE some light descriptions of rape. Also, their relationship can be considered underage, as Sherlock is not eighteen (but he is over the age of consent; that's why I didn't marked it as "Underage" in the tags), and there's a 12 years gap in their ages. Have this in mind if you find it triggering. 
> 
> As always, lots of love to my beta, Mianmaru.

John Watson checked his appearance in the rear-view mirror of his car before stepping out of it: nothing between his teeth, collar smoothed, no shaving foam or toothpaste stain at sight. Alright. He breathed deeply, grabbed his folder and proceeded to go inside the building his first day of job.

It was a chemistry teacher position at Greenwood Secondary School, and he would be teaching  A-levels. Even though it was a temporary position, he would work from the beginning of the school year until July, with real chances of coming back again the next term. He had heard rather bad reviews of the school, but he still had plenty of hope for what Greenwood could do for his career. It was a good opportunity to return to a teaching position after his years in the army where, although he had been quite happy, he had little chance to rejoin. And after coming back he had been just jumping from job to job, usually at private practices, which left him bored and unsatisfied. Surely teaching chemistry was going to be more rewarding than taking care of colds and gastroenteritis. God, let it be better than that! He honestly didn’t have a clue of what to try next if it wasn’t.

The school ground was quite new, airy and spacious, and the building was painted in a light, soft yellow. Before the wide main doors, though, there was a flight of stairs. John was half tempted to go up the ramp for the disabled, but he reminded himself that he had left his cane at home for a reason. He licked his lips thoroughly and ascended the stairs. They weren’t more than ten steps, but high nonetheless, and by the time John was at last in front of the doors, his face blank, the pain on his thigh was sending him peaks of agony. He passed through the doors as fast as possible, conscious not to hinder the flow of students that were coming in and advancing him, but he did stop once inside, trying not to limp while he leaned against the wall, slightly next to the door. In order to mask his pain under a casual behaviour, he opened his folder and consulted the building layout he had printed from the school webpage the previous day. The Head Teacher’s office was on the left of the main reception, and that was just in front of him, at the other side of the hall. He only had to try to relax his thigh for a moment, and he would be ready to introduce himself to the Head teacher and get stuck in with his first class. He watched the kids for a moment, noting, amused, how the wide, baggy jeans, longish hair and cardigans of his own _grunge_ times at Secondary school had turned into an ocean of chequered shirts, colourful t-shirts and _Converse_ s. The younger students, still in their grey and navy blue uniform, looked at the sixth forms with envy, not noticing that what their elder peers wore was as good as a uniform, he thought, chuckling; all but one of the boys seemed to dress in the same way.

The discordant note caught his attention, a vague blur of movement in the corner of the eye. The boy wore black jeans, pointed boots and… was it a _silk_ shirt? He could imagine pretty well the kind of nice epithets his peers would have thrown at him in his days, and things couldn’t be that different nowadays… _Well spotted, John_ , he thought, as three boys approached the first one and cornered him behind the stairs. John counted up to three. The boy surely would come out now, running perhaps. _4\. 5._ John moved forward, his pain momentarily forgotten. Two steps more, and he could see the books the boy was carrying, lying on the floor. _Shit_.

The scene under the stairs wasn’t unfamiliar to John, sadly. He was glad he had never been a participant, nor in his student times neither in the army, but it was hardly the first time he had to witness or intervene to stop it. Two of the boys (seventeen? sixteen?) were holding the boy in the silk shirt by his arms, twisting them behind his upper body, and the other one (could he be eighteen already? He surely looked older, or perhaps just bigger and trashed) was punching him repeatedly on his stomach.

“Whatever is the matter?”, he barked in full army-mode.

The bullies froze on the spot, and the punched boy dropped to the floor. The older one turned to look at John, and let his gaze go up and down, weighing him. _What a nerve_ , John thought.

“Your names, boys”, he ordered, readying pen and notebook.

The main bully spat to the floor, next to his own _Converse_ clad foot.

“Adrian. Smith.”

The other two boys mumbled two full names after him. John wrote them down, and then addressed the boy on the floor.

“Are these their true names?”

‘Adrian’ kicked the boy on the ribs. The poor lad panted and tried again to, at least, get on his knees.

“Oi! Stop that!”, John shouted. “You don’t have to say anything; I’m sure every teacher knows them. Now go to your classroom, you will get news of your punishment by the end of the day.”

The two boys who were holding the other ran away, but the bigger one stood tall in front of John.

“And who are you, by the way?”

“John Watson. _Captain_ John Watson, and now disappear!”

The boy addressed him a lopsided grin and went to join his friends. _Oh, yes, it’s a fantastic school, no doubt!_ , John thought. He turned his focus to the boy still kneeling on the floor. He reached to help him stand, but he shook off his hand and stood up on his own. Now that he could observe him, John realised that the boy was, in fact, taller than him. He was on the thinner side, but his shoulders were wide and his hands were big, so John decided the boy would definitely survive sixth form and University, bullies or not.

“Are you alright?”

The boy just raised his face and looked at John with disgust.

“OK, you are not, don’t give me that look. Do you want me to accompany you to the nurse?”

“That won’t be necessary”, he answered, with a voice way deeper than John would have expected from a teenager. “I’m going to be late to the first class”.

And with that, he started walking, heading for the classrooms. John considered for a moment insisting again, but it was indeed a bit late, and he still had to introduce himself to the Head teacher before the lessons.

Five minutes later, he stepped in the first classroom of his schedule. The Head Teacher had been busy, but the deputy heads had been really nice. She had given him his timetable for the term, listened to his story about the bullies and promised she would give them detention (as he expected, the description of the boys rang a bell at once). So he was feeling quite confident when he came in the classroom and felt thirty pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on him. It was the first day of the school year, and everybody was focused in finding new faces; he was quite sure that he would have had less impact in the class if he had arrived once the year had already started. He placed his folder on the desk, turned the laptop on and took a flash drive out his trousers pocket. He had prepared a powerpoint presentation with the scheduling of the course, but before, while the laptop warmed up, he fiddled with the registers and tried to find the right one. Two girls on the first row giggled and pointed out one of the papers… one that he had already put aside, thinking it belonged to another group. He was _almost_ sure he avoided blushing, but he couldn’t be a hundred per cent certain ( _damned fair skin_!). He thanked the girls and started roll-call. It took him a full minute, his focus completely set in trying to remember faces linked to names, to acknowledge a known face on the second row, sitting next to the racks and the door, and opposite to the windows. The boy in the silk shirt.

He was running his hand through his short dark curls, looking bored and completely oblivious to his presence. No bruises on his face, at least, so he could just pretend nothing had happened. John called his name: _Sherlock Holmes_. God, he didn’t even need that shirt and his spotless look to ask for bully attention… He was sentenced at birth. The boy raised his hand, frowning, and John tried not to pay more attention to him than to the rest of students for the rest of the lesson. He was completely silent, anyway, never losing that air of condescending boredom. At the end of the class, however, when most of the students headed for the corridor, he stayed, taking out his mobile phone and starting to type really fast into it. John approached him. Sherlock Holmes ignored his presence. John coughed lightly. A pair of grey eyes darted up to meet his.

“Yes, what?”, the boy asked.

“I just wanted to ask you if you are feeling better”, John said, quietly. Nobody seemed to be eavesdropping them, anyway. Holmes nodded and focused again in his phone. John added, “The Head Teacher has assured me they will get detention today.”

“Fine”.

“I hope it is. Look, if there’s something else I can do to help…”

“I said ‘fine’, and I’m fine. Go back to your work, Doc.”

John froze all of a sudden. Holmes got up in a swift and smooth twirl and left the room. John followed him remarkably more slowly and clumsily, suddenly envying all that youthful energy. The army had kept all of his, it seemed. The corridor was packed with students and Holmes was nowhere to be seen, so he had to keep for himself the question that lingered in his tongue. _What a curious kid_.

The rest of the day went by uneventful: the students were quite nice, even though his favourite group was, in fact, the A-level one from the first morning period. It had the usual noisy clique in the back rows, but also some nice students on the front one: intelligent, witty and funny. Not many, of course, just the two girls and one boy, but they made it worth it. And he was still wondering how Holmes knew he was a doctor when he finally ended the day’s lessons and headed for the teachers parking lot. He definitely would ask the next day he saw the kid. He sat inside his car, threw his now thick folder on the other seat and sighed. The pain in his leg had abated during the first lesson, and never came back in full. He was quite happy with the outcome of the day: new acquaintances, the reassurance of a well paid job for a whole year, that warm feeling inside his chest that always came from feeling useful… Then his gaze caught a drawing beside the front doors, on the yellowish wall, and he would swear it wasn’t there that morning. He got out of the car to look better at it, and then grimaced.

The drawing was a comic-like man with a huge phallus, almost bigger than the figure, and upon it the letters said: “JOHN WATSON IS A PRICK”.

 

* * *

 

 

On Tuesday and Wednesday he ran a written test through his groups, in order to check if their knowledge level was better than their behavioural one. He had each group twice a week, and then one lab hour with half groups weekly. He intended to pair the students for the lab according to the results on the test. Tuesday’s results were rather disappointing; he complained in the cafeteria at lunch time. Mike Stamford shrugged and then uttered one of his laughs that sounded suspiciously like a bark. John couldn’t help smiling at him. He had been gladly surprised to find out that Mike was also teaching at Greenwood: they happened to meet at Barts, during their first two years of University, but after that the two of them chose different subjects and lost track of each other. Mike had been shocked when he heard that John joined the army the year after they finished at Barts.

“So that’s where you were hidden… I thought you were going to teach? What happened?”

“Yeah, I tried for a few months…”, John nodded.

And he changed topics quickly. Mike had enough insight to drop the topic and not ask again. John couldn’t remember much of their relationship at Barts, but he did remember fondly easy conversations at the students’ canteen and Mike’s warm and contagious laugh.

On Wednesday he had again his favourite group, on the second period. He was looking forward to the results of his test; he was quite sure that half the group, at the very least, would get much better marks than his two Tuesday’s groups.

“This is not an exam, so you can relax, guys… It’s only a tool for me to know what level we are starting the year with. This doesn’t mean you can’t try to impress me, of course.”

The two girls in the front row giggled, as always. _Marcie and Nell_ , John remembered easily. _And Rick by their side_. Rick didn’t giggle, but a wide and satisfied smile spread by his face, clearly eager to impress the teacher. _Good_ , John thought winking at them and returning the smile. He strolled along the aisles the first minutes, checking that everybody understood the questions, and then sat down behind his desk and turned the laptop on. He had at least thirty minutes until the first students started to finish the test. To his surprise, before he could even enter his email account, a last racking gaze across the classroom showed him that Sherlock Holmes had already finished. He got up and approached the boy (who was wearing another shirt today; not a silk one, but a crisp and smart black one. _Someone should tell him there’s not a “the most elegant student” competition; this is secondary school, boy: this is “wear exactly what the other ones wear or you are fucked”, Mr. Sherlock Holmes_ ). John smiled and peeked down to Holmes’ test: it was completed. The boy looked bored again, his eyes fixed absently at somewhere on the wall.

“Have you finished, Sherlock? Do you want to check it a last time?”

The boy shook his head. He didn’t seem to be avoiding John’s eyes, just too uninterested to look at him. John took the test and told Sherlock he could read or work on another subject while his mates finished their task. The boy took out his mobile and a book, and John sat down again and marked the test. He marked it twice, in fact. He glanced up the kid again: Sherlock was concentrated on his book. The rest of the students were still working on their test, some of them struggling and leaving a good amount of questions in blank. John focused again on the test he had in front of him. It was impossible. All the questions were right. It was a perfect test. Some of the questions were a tad too difficult on purpose, to highlight the few students who could be interested in studying chemistry at University level (there had been none in Tuesday’s groups). Sherlock Holmes, that odd kid who dressed like a fucking fashion shop assistant, had even answered those questions right, and he had done it in record time. Even his three favourite students hadn’t finished yet, eager to impress him as they were. And there was no way he could have cheated on the test. John rubbed his eyes, blinked and licked his lips. His stay at Greenwood had turned more interesting all of a sudden.

He commented his discovery at lunch time. Mike Stamford smiled at hearing the name.

“Ah, yes, Sherlock Holmes. I had him two years ago. He’s brilliant, that kid. But irregular, too: I had real problems to make him pass the subject, mind you”.

“How come?”, John asked, frowning.

“He often failed to hand the tasks in, or left the lab practices unfinished… And surely you have noticed he doesn’t get along well with the rest of the group… OK, OK, I know that’s a big understatement… Well, you can imagine how the lab work in pairs went: sometimes he didn’t turn up, or refused to work with his partner. So in the end I always had a brilliant exam, but also a lot of fail marks.”

“But you gave him a pass, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course I did. I know some colleagues wouldn’t agree with me, but sod them! I’m a veteran here; I can afford to be too lenient on occasions. But I wouldn’t have done it if I had known how he would turn out the next year… I honestly didn’t see it coming!”

The young woman who was sitting next to him elbowed Mike, hard. The plump man just laughed, and John had to settle for looking puzzled from one to the other. The woman sighed.

“You could just leave me out of this, Mike.”

“But John is new and deserves to know!”

“Hey, I’m still here, you know?”, John joked, following Mike’s light tone. The woman looked slightly annoyed, but John was sure Mike would win her with no effort, his laugh was that kind of contagious. “What’s the matter with that kid? Is he a future chemist or what?”

“I would bet for ‘or what’”, Mike answered.

“Oh, he’s not like that, Mike, don’t be unfair!”, the girl exclaimed.

“So you still defend him, hmmmm? Interesting. I knew you were fond of him, Molly, but still?”

The young woman –Molly- blushed furiously. John raised his hand, about to ask Mike to leave her alone, for God’s sake, but she gave in and started to explain herself.

“I reacted exactly the same way as John: Sherlock Holmes is brilliant, full stop. The only problem was that, once he noticed my reaction, he started to talk me into trying to have full access to the lab, at lunch time and free periods.”

John frowned.

“What for?”

“He didn’t steal anything, if that’s what you are thinking”, Molly hurried to say. “He just wanted to do his own lab practises. What we did in the classroom was too basic and boring to him.”

“Oh, perhaps not stealing, but he did use a lot of components”, Mike added, “and he managed to cause a couple to explosions.”

“One fire and one explosion”, Molly corrected. “And it wasn’t on purpose”.

“Of course it wasn’t on purpose! But the equipment was damaged all the same, and he was alone in the lab out of lesson hours, so you can imagine who the Head Teacher blamed.”

Molly avoided everyone’s eyes, obviously embarrassed.

“And that’s not the worst”, Mike added. “For me, the worst was the way he manipulated Molly to get what he wanted, you should have seen him. He seemed another person: you see him so awkward and shy, always with that sad look around him, and then you put him in front of someone he can manipulate, and he turns into a complete bastard.”

“Mike!”, Molly shushed, still blushing.

“No, sorry, Molly, but that’s the right word. I almost pitied him in my classroom, but when I saw him clearly flirting at you to get the lab… I don’t know, I didn’t expect that of him, it was disappointing.”

John tried to add all that information to his mental image of Sherlock Holmes (clever, bored, bullied, lonely). It was a bit too much. After a moment, when Molly berated Mike lightly and then both of them joked and things seemed to calm down, John tried to resume the issue:

“So. Then. What works with Sherlock Holmes is trying to avoid him getting bored, but cutting him short if he tries to exceed the limits, is that all?”

Mike grinned; Molly acquiesced.

“Good summary, yes!”

 

* * *

 

Thursday, last period: lab hour with Sherlock Holmes half group. John put the students in pairs, held his ground against the complaints and didn’t allow any changes to the disposition he had planned. Thank God the group was odd numbers; this way no one could complain when everybody was finally sitting down with a partner, with the exception of Sherlock. The tall boy had been leaning against the wall with his usual bored look during the entire partner’s sorting, but now he had a slightly puzzled expression on his face. John pointed a table in a corner, and Sherlock grabbed his schoolbag and sat down there. The worksheets John had prepared were delivered to all the students; he gave all the possible explanations and did one exercise on the blackboard, as an example. When the teenagers finally set to work, he approached Sherlock and handed him another worksheet.

“Forget that one, this is yours.”

The boy’s cat-like eyes stared at John (curiously, his eyes seemed deep blue that morning; John would have sworn they were grey the other day). Amused, John explained him his tasks. Sherlock’s gaze swept quickly the paper and came back to his teacher’s face.

“What do I owe this treatment of favour?”, Sherlock asked, quietly. The other students looked at them suspiciously, but soon they were all concentrated in their set of experiments.

“Your test outcome was brilliant, Sherlock”. John decided that avoiding mentioning anything the other teachers had said about him was only for the best. “Are you going to study Chemistry at Uni?”

Sherlock lowered his eyes.

“I still don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Good. Anyway, the experiments I had prepared for the classroom were too easy for you, so I hope these ones turn out more interesting.”

John noticed the boy’s pale cheeks were quite red, and when he just nodded, instead of saying “thank you”, John was content enough and went to check the rest of the group. He stopped by every pair of partners, answering questions or just watching. Sherlock didn’t call him for help in the whole hour. He didn’t look bored, either. When at the end of the lesson he handed his worksheet out, John wasn’t surprised at all to find out all the exercises were right again.

* * *

 

September and October passed by with the new dynamics in John’s schedule: he taught his four groups in the morning, had lunch almost everyday with Mike and Molly in the school’s cafeteria, came back home and marked his pupils’ worksheets, prepared his lessons, printed another worksheet for next day from a school publishing website, and then took out his Chemistry books from Uni to prepare Sherlock’s worksheet. It was oddly fun: every time he chose an exercise, he could picture in his mind the satisfied smirk of the boy when he finished it that week. Besides, Sherlock’s attitude at the rest of his lessons had changed. He wasn’t apathetic or looked bored anymore; he always paid attention to the explanations and raised his hand to ask questions. That was beginning to be an entirely different issue, in fact. His questions were usually too advanced for their level, and even his mates in the first row growled quietly every time Sherlock raised his hand. Marcie and Nell had provided a new set of gossips about Sherlock and his last years at Greenwood, and even though John just laughed a bit and begged them to please stop talking behind the back of other people, he had trouble to accommodate all those stories to the very detailed mental frame he had about a certain Sherlock Holmes. He refused to believe any of them and decided to forget them as soon as possible (well, with the obvious exception of the lab explosion last year; that story was too funny to forget. He should try to get it explained by Sherlock himself, so it wouldn’t be a gossip any more). In fact, the boy was more talkative now, and he often came nearer his desk at the end of the lessons to share his thoughts about something that John had said or the outcome of an exercise. Would it have been any other student, John would feel slightly annoyed, but Sherlock was so enthusiastic and lively when talking about chemistry, that John couldn’t help smiling. The change in that boy! John felt so proud, of Sherlock because of his improvement and of himself, of course. His peers wouldn’t like Sherlock better now, but at least the teenager looked happy and motivated instead of bored and absent.

Sherlock soon started to stay a little longer after their lab sessions, while John tidied up and put everything away; it was their last period before lunch time, after all, so five minutes more were a trifle. But he had Mike and Molly’s warning in mind. Sherlock still hadn’t tried to ask for extra time at the lab, and John always checked the key twice when he was around. If something like what happened to Molly would happen to him, he would be fired in a snap, so, clever and lonely or not, John would make sure that Sherlock stayed in his place.

By the beginning of November, though, the five extra minutes had turned into twenty, John noticed with dismay. Sherlock usually worked five minutes more in an additional exercise, then helped John to tidy up and after that they just talked lively. Sherlock’s enthusiasm was contagious, John admitted. But Mike had asked him twice what was delaying him at lunch time, and then John had had to sigh. He should tell Sherlock to finish in time and leave their conversations to the classroom. He would tell him that Thursday.

But when John looked at Sherlock that morning, his five extra minutes long exceeded, the teenager, aware of John’s eyes on him, raised his gaze to look at him and blushed. His eyes looked greenish that day, so bright on his pale and strange features. John had needed a couple of weeks to get used to that angular and unusual face, and still had no idea if a woman would catalogue Sherlock as “attractive” or “ugly”. But those eyes were truly remarkable. And why was he blushing? The boy sometimes blushed when he noticed John was looking at him, and always when John told him how brilliant and clever he was. A rather odd reaction, John thought, given that Sherlock was very aware of his cleverness and wasn’t shy at all.

“Sherlock”, he said after clearing his throat. The boy’s eyes were piercing him, making him feel uncomfortable, but he didn’t avoid Sherlock’s stare. “I think we should talk about something.”

The teenager lowered his eyes all of a sudden, and his blush turned scarlet.

“Nothing good has ever come out from a conversation beginning with those words”, Sherlock whispered.

John giggled, feeling a bit dumb.

“Yes, you are right: bad phrasing. Anyway, the talking bit has to be done.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be that obvious.”

Sherlock got up, his gaze still down, and hastened to pack his things. John frowned.

“What? Sorry, I don’t know what you mean. I just think you spend too much extra time in the lab. Five minutes more is okay, but lately we always finish too late. You need that time to have lunch, and besides, you should spend your time with people your age…”

John’s train of thought derailed at the sight of the disgusted expression on Sherlock’s face. John recognised it: it was the same look he wore that first day, when those bullies hurt him and John asked him, rather foolishly, if he was alright.

“What’s wrong now?”, John asked, nervous. “Hey, don’t look at me that way!”

“You can’t possibly be _that_ oblivious, can you?”, the boy almost spat.

“I still have no idea what you are talking about. Do you mind being a bit more specific?”

Sherlock looked definitely angry now. He dropped his schoolbag again and faced John, suddenly tall and intimidating in front of his teacher.

“OK, Doc. Why do you think I stay longer, please tell me?”

“Ah… You like to spend time in the lab.”

“Right. But I usually enjoy more of my lab time when I’m alone in it, as I’m sure Molly Hooper has told you. Now it’s you who is making faces, John.”

“…So you knew I have heard stories about you, alright. Does it have something to do with your sudden anger?”

Sherlock made a step forward. John gulped; Sherlock was already looming over him.

“Perhaps”, the boy whispered softly. “What else have you heard?”

John raised his chin and kept his eyes on Sherlock’s, refusing to feel intimidated.

“I have forgotten everything else. The explosion story was too funny, sorry, that one was impossible to forget. Did you really bring a _cat_ to the lab?”

An involuntary half smile tugged the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. He turned serious at once, but leaned back, giving John space, and sighed. He went back to pick up his schoolbag.

“It wasn’t only to spend time at the lab, John; it was spending it with you.”

The words were muttered so quietly that John, at first, thought he had imagined them. But no. They had been said, and now he could almost see them, as a solid presence, floating between them. Sherlock adjusted his bag on his back, avoiding John’s eyes, quiet, and John knew he was waiting for some kind of response on his part, but after the momentary shock there came Mike and Molly’s warning: Sherlock had flirted with Molly last year, only to manipulate her. Other bits of forgotten information came back to his mind, stories that made sense to the fact that Sherlock was now flirting with _him_ , a male. To his own surprise, John felt more confused than angered.

“Sherlock”, he said as calm as he could, “I’m not Molly Hooper.”

The boy glared at him.

“That’s for sure”, Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “She would never mistake a real feeling for a fake one. Last year she was always aware that I had no real interest in her, and that I was just trying to be nice. I don’t think she told you otherwise.”

John nodded.

“True. But I still don’t understand what you mean.”

“What do you want, John? A love letter? God, and I thought I was being too obvious!”

It was John’s turn to feel uncomfortable and take refuge in simple tidying up tasks. He refused to look at the boy while he started to pack his things.

“So it’s for the best if we stop to spend more time than the strictly necessary together, then. From now on, there won’t be more “extra five minutes”, but don’t worry: you will have your customised worksheets as usual, and I’m sure everything will be back to normal in a few days.”

“So that’s all?”

John felt Sherlock’s looming presence again, mere inches from him. He sighed; that was the most awkward situation he could ever imagine with a pupil.

“John… Please, look at me.” He did; Sherlock looked tall and strong, not a kid but a grown up man, and his whole body exhaled intensity. His bright green eyes pinned John, he barely dared to breath; and when he started talking again the deep mumble seemed to echo inside John’s bones. “I know you are as lonely as I am: you don’t have a woman back at home, and even though you are always friendly, you don’t let others enter your personal space easily. I bet you can count your friends with the fingers of one hand. I can see a place for me there. You are already making exceptions for me, in every aspect, not just the worksheets or letting me work on my own.”

John shook his head and stepped backwards using all his willpower.

“Stop, please… Sherlock, look, it’s not that I’m not interested in you: you are brilliant, and I’m proud of you, really. But I’m your teacher, we can’t have a real friendly relationship. Besides, I’m not interested in men, and I’m twelve years your senior, and we don’t really know each other… Do I have to go on?”

Sherlock gave him what can only be called a “winning grin”.

“You were born in the North, not in the country and not in a big town. You are not in touch with your parents; perhaps they are dead, or perhaps they didn’t approve of your joining the army. You have one younger sister, but you are not very close, because you never speak of her. You studied Medicine at St. Bartholomew, with Mike Stamford, but instead of working as a doctor or as a teacher, you opted by army doctor. You got shot, in your shoulder, but you have a psychosomatic pain in your leg that makes you limp slightly. You forget that pain during the lessons, so it’s boredom and inactivity what causes it. I bet you miss the war, the risk. You are an action man, John, you are not made to live an average life and teaching will only help you for a while, and only moderately. In a couple of months, when the novelty has worn out, you will limp again. _Do I have to go on_?”

The above tirade was whispered without a pause to breath, and if Sherlock’s intensity had been uncomfortable some minutes before, now it was overwhelming. John gulped.

“Sherlock. Please go out. Now.”

The boy growled. He didn’t say anything else, but turned towards John in the door, and there were only hurt feelings on his face. When he finally closed the door behind him, John let himself drop on his chair. He hid his face in his hands, trying to decide how he felt. Angry? Yes. He was angry, of course. All was going so smoothly, he went to work every day feeling almost happy, for the first time since his return, and now it was all wrong again. Annoyed? Yes, that too. His first impression of the boy was the good one, Sherlock was odd. He was observant, but that amount of data about him? What had he done, follow him? Search his bag and his pockets? What face would he possibly make next Monday? He would have to pretend nothing was wrong in front of the rest of the group. Was Sherlock going to pretend, too, or would he be acting as a spoiled child who was refused to have his favourite toy? Confused? Yes. How didn’t he notice Sherlock’s attitude towards him? Was he pretending after all, and this was Molly Hooper’s second part? Or was it real? Was Sherlock besotted with him? Why, why on Earth with him? A brilliant, attractive ( _yes, decidedly attractive_ ) teenager, what the hell would he want to do with a twenty-nine year old ex-army doctor? A limping, average, boring, lonely ex-army doctor, who if Sherlock was right ( _and when wasn’t he right_?), would be using a cane again after Christmas.

Suddenly, the door opened again, and Sherlock’s face appeared at the frame. John felt tired, very, very tired.

“Sherlock, please, we can talk again next Monday if you want…”

The look on Sherlock’s face made him stop. Alarm was clearly shown in all his features.

“It’s not about me, John. Come along, quickly!”

The doctor took his bag and followed Sherlock, almost running. They went down a flight of stairs, and then Sherlock stopped and approached, slowly, the empty space behind the stairs, a spot very similar to the one John had seen him the first time. And, the same as that time, now the space wasn’t really empty, as John realised. A girl was sitting on the floor, her face on her knees, clearly sobbing.

“Claire, I’ve brought Professor Watson; he is a doctor”. Sherlock’s voice was careful and quiet, and he stood some feet away from the girl.

The girl raised her face, covered in tears, and John recognised her: she was in Sherlock’s group.

“Claire, calm down. Please, tell me what happened.”

The girl hiccoughed, contorting her features, and instead of answering, she opened her legs, separating her knees, which had previously been glued together. Her skirt was a bit torn, and John’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the stream of blood running down her thighs and pooling on the floor.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock to phone the police and an ambulance, but he already heard the boy taking out his mobile phone and doing it. John licked his lips, feeling completely lost. It was the first time he had to face a rape victim.

“Claire, do you think you can stand up? I will help you walk to the nurse’s office. There you’ll be able to lie down, and rest for a while, until the police arrive.”

The girls whined, and her sobs turned more hysterical.

“I don’t want to see the police, this is so embarrassing! I don’t want everybody knowing it.”

“Claire, you were attacked: that’s no shame in that. We must catch the person who did it, and any help from your part will lead to put that person in jail. I assure you, no one in the school will laugh. If we don’t say anything, it could happen again, to other girl, and I’m sure you wouldn’t like that.”

The girl seemed to calm down a bit and finally nodded. She had stopped crying, but her face was a mess of black rimmel and tears, and her bangs were half glued to her wet cheeks. John reached for her, and Claire allowed him to help her stand up. They started to walk slowly, taking the stairs one by one. It was obvious that the girl felt dizzy and weak. After some painfully slow minutes going downstairs and walking along the empty ground floor corridor in complete silence, Sherlock’s strong steps ran towards them.

“The police will be here in five minutes, and an ambulance is coming as well”, the boy explained.

The nurse office was closed: absolutely everybody seemed to be at home or at the cafeteria. Luckily, the general key also opened that door, so John opened it with his key and the three of them stepped in. They helped Claire to lie on the stretcher. The girl still looked dizzy and about to cry; John thought of sending Sherlock to find the Head Teacher or the Deputy Heads, as they were most surely at the cafeteria, but instead he found himself asking Claire:

“Could you see the face of your attacker?”

The girls shook his head.

“He surprised me from behind”, she explained with a tiny voice that had nothing to do with her usual cheerful self. “I had come back to our classroom to look for my homework: I wanted to do it with Tina during lunch time. Tina said she would wait for me outside, on our bench. I asked for the key at reception, I went up, grabbed my book and my notebook, ran downstairs again, and when I was almost at the first floor landing someone pushed me to the floor. I fell down on my face. I swear at first I thought it was Tina, and I was about to shout at her, really mad, when a rough, big hand covered my mouth. Christ, it almost covered my nose, too! Then I got scared. I tried to bit that hand, but then he knocked me on the head, hard. I don’t think I lost consciousness then, but I felt dizzy and confused for a while. Well, until I felt the pain, of course, that woke me up completely. I’ve… I’ve never done that before. It was awful. It was like having an animal ripping me in pieces!”

At that the sobbing returned. John reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

“The police will find him, Claire. Hmmm… Could you sit up a bit? I’ll put a cushion under your shoulders. I would like to take a look at your head. Please don’t fall asleep, not until they have observed your concussion at the hospital, OK?”

The girl nodded. _She seems so small and young_ , John thought. _What a beast!_ His stomach churned and he realised he was opening and fisting his hands; he remembered well that gesture from his army times. His body was getting ready for battle. Only that this time there wasn’t any battle, only impotence and restrained rage.

“What else do you remember of him?”

Sherlock’s voice came from his back; he had almost forgotten the boy was still there. He was going to tell him to leave the poor girl alone, but Sherlock was quicker, and John’s words died in his mouth.

“I’m sorry to bother you in this pitiful situation, Claire” the boy said, “but we have to rule out as many people as we can, and we must do it quickly. He is out there, perhaps having lunch at the cafeteria as calm and happy as if anything had happen. Please, make an effort.”

The girl frowned, still hiccupping.

“I couldn’t see him.”

“But you said his hands were big… What else? What did he smell of? What was his voice like?”

“Sherlock, that’s a bit too much…” John tried to intervene.

 _I should be phoning her parents, locating the Head Teacher… Sherlock shouldn’t even be here._ But the girl considered the questions for a moment and, instead of bursting into tears as John had feared, she tried to actually answer, her voice still hesitant and small.

“No especial smell. A light sweat, but I can’t be sure. He had something over his mouth, a jumper perhaps, but that couldn’t disguise he had a deep voice.”

“As deep as Sherlock’s?” John couldn’t help to ask.

Sherlock glared at him.

“I don’t smell of sweat, John. Never.”

 _Only he could feel insulted by that_ , John thought, almost amused. But the girl had opened her eyes wide with horror, so John hurried to assure her Sherlock had been with him when the attack took place.

“But it’s true that the attacker had a deep voice”, Sherlock followed, unrelenting, pacing by the small room and turning to look at John, “like me, as it seems to happen, and he is obviously strong, tall and with big hands.”

“Your description, again”. Sherlock stopped his pacing to glare dangerously to John, so he added: “But you were in the lab with me, so you are out of suspicion.”

“Thank God for that”, Sherlock whispered. He faced the girl again. She looked a bit afraid of them now ( _the knowledge that any man in the school, including us, could be her rapist might have just landed on her, poor girl_ , John thought). “Anything else? Did you see his hands? Was he wearing any ring, did he have a mole, callus?”

“I couldn’t really look at them! But they were rough, so yes, he had callus.”

The girl’s eyes went at once to Sherlock’s hands. He raised his hands, palms up, and showed them to her: they were soft and white, without any trace of roughness. Claire raised his gaze again to Sherlock’s face, and John could see a silent “ _thank you_ ” there. He was tempted to show his palms, too, but she didn’t seem to need it. Sherlock started again to pace, joining his hands in front of his face, and talked aloud for himself.

“So we can rule out all the teachers over forty; not one of the elder teachers is fond of racket sports or gardening. We can discard as well all the younger students, because our man has already changed his voice. Regarding the height and the physical force, the staff suspect list reduces considerably…”

“What? How…?”, John tried to react, open-mouthed.

But then the door opened, and a man and a woman in blue police uniform stepped in, showing their badges. The policeman asked them to follow him out the room, what they did, and the female officer stayed in the nurse room with Claire. Once outside, the officer (Sergeant Gregson, as he introduced himself) asked them to explain what had happened. He listened carefully to them, but when Sherlock started to give him the details he had deduced from Claire’s explanations, the man raised his hand and made him stop.

“That would be all. Except I will need to talk to the Head Teacher. Any idea of where they might be?”

John led him to the cafeteria; Sherlock tagged along them, two steps behind. The Deputy Heads was there; the woman jumped as soon as she saw the man in the uniform. She approached them with a questioning look directed to John, and her face turned ash grey when the cop started to explain what had happened. She almost ran towards the main corridor, leaving John and Sherlock standing at the door. The cop took his leave with a curt nod to John and followed her. John sighed and turned to look at Sherlock; he couldn’t read his expression, but he bet Sherlock was feeling rather annoyed right now: Sergeant Gregson shouldn’t have ignored him.

“You still have half an hour to have lunch”, he told the teenager. “If we hurry up, there’s that Chinese take-away in the corner.”

Sherlock nodded absently and followed him out.

The neighbourhood, like most of Greater London, was shaped as a main street, with almost all the shops and restaurants and traffic, and a lot of quiet streets around it, mostly terraced houses with a solitary shop or pub now and then. Greenwood was in one of the furthest corners of the neighbourhood, so all the variety available for lunch was the school cafeteria or a greasy Chinese take-away. John usually sat at the teacher’s table and had a salad or a soup and a sandwich, something easy. But the day had been unusually stressing, his favourite pupil looked battered, and his body was demanding something heavy and spicy. And a beer. And to celebrate he was crossing a couple of boundaries, he bought one beer for Sherlock, too. The boy looked at him confused, and said a feeble thank you, but pocketed the beer without opening it. They sat down on a bench, in a green patch just out of the school ground.

“What about what you said before, not spending more time with you?” Sherlock asked, suspicious, as soon as they settled down with their food boxes.

“Well, what happened just after that changed the circumstances a bit, don’t you think? I can make an exception”. John paused to munch his noodles. Once he swallowed, he added: “Besides, I wanted to talk with you. How did you know all those details?”

Sherlock frowned, pausing his loaded sticks on their way to his mouth.

“Which ones? About you, or about the rapist?”

“They were both quite amazing. Start with mine.”

“Ah, OK. Middle sized town of origin: your style of clothing, just that. Your family: you never talk about them. You have explained some army and uni stories in the classrooms, but you have never mentioned your family. You have a photo of your sister inside your wallet, though.”

“How have you seen it? And hey, it could have been my girlfriend!”

“I saw it one day you were asking for a photocopy of a personal document in reception. And she looked very alike you. You don’t have anyone at home, because you always have lunch in the school, even though you don’t have lessons in the afternoon. The rest was just making deductions out of the gathered data. Was it all spot on?”

John sighed.

“Almost.”

Sherlock eyebrows lowered.

“Oh. Can you tell me what did I read wrong?”

“My parents are alive, and they weren’t disappointed when I joined the army. Well, not much.”

“Then?”

“It’s personal.”

Sherlock looked frustrated, but said nothing. He focused on his food for a couple of minutes.

“You did get angry when I told you my deductions about you”, he whispered at last.

John considered that while he munched.

“I wasn’t angry about that, no, I don’t think so. But it was too much. I’m sorry, I should have been more patient, handle it better.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened and he set his eyes on his wooden sticks again.

“Don’t worry, it’s hardly the first time I’m being rejected”, he said quietly.

John looked at him, feeling a pang of regret.

“Then clearly you are always asking the wrong person, Sherlock. I’m sure you will find soon someone who loves you; you deserve it.”

Sherlock stood up and strode fast towards the bin, where he tossed the remains of his lunch and the packages. John joined him and felt bad at seeing the deep frown still set between his pupil’s eyes. He wanted to comfort him, but he also needed a bit of space between them.

“Tell me about your other deductions”, he asked to change the topic. They only had two minutes left anyway; the afternoon periods were about to start.

It seemed to work: Sherlock accompanied John to his car while he explained his thoughts.

“I think it’s quite clear: the attacker had to be tall to be able to immobilise Claire. She is five foot four; more or less like you, right? The position he had her needed some extra inches to work, and a considerable strength. We can cross out all the men below five feet nine, I would say. Claire didn’t smell tobacco, so he’s not a smoker, or his clothes would have reeked of it. The voice is good evidence, too. And he plays lacrosse, cricket, tennis or other sport that uses a racket or a stick. The other option is that he does some kind of handy work. I could print a copy of the group registers and just cross all the discarded students off. I bet we would end with a list of ten suspects at most.”

John couldn’t close his mouth, shocked.

“But that’s fantastic! Sherlock, I thought you were brilliant, but I had no idea. You are truly a genius!”

Sherlock looked down and tried to hide a smile, blushing. John couldn’t help to laugh. But then the school bell chimed.

“Oh, God, you are going to be late!”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I don’t mind.”

“But I do! Please go! We’ll talk next Monday. Do that list!”

The boy nodded and started to walk towards the building. He turned to look at John, already inside his car.

“See you on Monday, Doc.”

* * *

 

In fact, they met the next day, although they hadn’t chemistry on Fridays. When John arrived to Greenwood, first hour in the morning, the incident was in everybody’s mouth. He instinctively looked for Sherlock in the corridors; he saw him at the end of the second period, his dark curls and long trench coat were rather difficult to miss. The boy met his eyes and came closer.

“Did you made that list?” John asked him hurriedly.

“Yes, I did it” Sherlock said, annoyed. “I included the staff, and the outcome was a bit longer list of suspects, thirty-two in total”.

“Thirty-two?” John smiled widely. He had no idea of the amount of students and teachers in Greenwood, but he was sure it might be around a thousand. Cutting it to only thirty-two looked incredible. “That’s impressive, Sherlock!”

“But.”

“Oh, what’s the but?”

“The Head Teacher has refused to see me or even taking the list. No one takes me seriously!”

The boy looked angry and completely frustrated. John sighed, feeling sorry for him.

“Give me the list, I will make sure he gets it and understands its importance.”

Without a word, Sherlock opened his schoolbag and took a plastic folder. He gave it to John, attempting a smile. The teacher smiled him back, trying to look reassuring.

He accomplished the first part of what he had promised to Sherlock, talking to the Head Teacher and handing him the list, but he wasn’t so successful with the second part: the balding man only took a quick glance to the list, unimpressed, and hummed uncommitted.

“This list can be useful for the police”, John insisted.

“They already have our pupils’ list, John. I’m sure Sergeant Gregson can arrive to the right conclusions without the help of a sixteen year old boy. You shouldn’t lead him on, John; it’s not healthy for a teenager to obsess after gory crimes as this one. I know that Holmes kid is very clever. Perhaps you could suggest him to join our chess club? That’s where he could be really useful. Tell him to leave this stuff to the police, would you? They are professionals, after all.”

And that was all; the Head Teacher faked a tight smile and returned to his paper work. John didn’t have any other option but leave the office.

* * *

 

The atmosphere at the school was slightly calmer after the weekend; but when John stepped in his first classroom, he found almost all the students gathered together around Rick. The group dispersed and started to sit down when they saw John, but Marcie exclaimed, joyfully:

“John! Come here, please! You know what? Rick’s father has explained to him a lot of things about Claire’s rape; he’s assisting the Sergeant who is investigating the case!”

John noticed, concerned, that Claire hadn’t come that day. Understandable, the girl needed a bit of rest at home until she felt calmer. Sherlock, on the other hand, was sitting on his usual spot, but he wasn’t losing a word of the conversation.

“Yes, my father is just an officer, and he doesn’t usually comment a word about his job, but he was worried because it has happened in my school and volunteered to help with the case”, Rick explained, beaming. Although he wasn’t shy, he wasn’t very popular and it was not every day he could enjoy of the attention of the whole class. “They have been asking around all the staff during the weekend”. John nodded; he had to explain again the entire incident to Gregson’s assistant ( _perhaps he was Rick’s father?_ ) on Friday afternoon. “And last night they found their main suspect: Robson, the handyman!”

The chattering noise suddenly peeked, as all the students seemed to have something to comment about Robson, and all at once. John coughed and raised a bit his voice.

“Alright, guys! Please, sit in groups of four; we are doing the exercises on page 67. You must discuss them in group and come to only one outcome. Well reasoned, of course, not out of the blue.”

The boys and girls whined, as every Monday morning, but they slowly started to move chairs and take their books out. John called Sherlock with a gesture and made him sit down with Rick and the girls. As soon as they were sat facing each other, Nell asked:

“They say Sherlock and you found the poor Claire, is it true?”

John nodded.

“My father says there was a lot of blood”, Rick muttered.

The girls were horrified. _The Head had a point; they shouldn’t know so many details, it’s morbid_ , John thought. But it was a bit late to worry about that anyway, the deed was done, and he could only be grateful that any other student was listening to them now.

“Not a lot, but there was blood, yes. It wasn’t just sex without consent, it was an attack.”

Nell and Marcie looked to each other with wide eyes.

“Thank God they have caught that man, then”, Marcie said after a silence.

“About that… I don’t think I have ever met Robson. Sherlock, was him in the list?”

All eight eyes turned to Sherlock, who nodded absently.

“I’m not a hundred per cent sure about the voice, though”, the boy added. “Would you describe Robson’s voice as deep?”

Rick and the girls seemed lost. At last Rick answered:

“I have never heard him, sorry. But what it’s this about? What list?”

John explained Sherlock’s deductions and work. The three of them were amazed and started to look at Sherlock with awe. He avoided looking to any of them, and when he finally raised his eyes from his book, he focused only in John.

“But that’s amazing!” Nell exclaimed. “Is Scotland Yard using that list?”

“No, sadly the Head Teacher thought Sergeant Gregson doesn’t need any help. Well, if Robson is the attacker, then it’s all said and done, and we only can hope Claire comes back as soon as possible.”

“What if not?” Rick asked.

John looked at him and sighed. That was the question.

“Do you know if Claire has received any threat? Any angry ex-boyfriend?” he asked.

Rick and the girls looked hesitant.

“I don’t think so” Marcie answered, “she has never had a boyfriend.”

“But she likes to flirt”, Nell added. “Just… nothing serious, you know?”

“Has she rejected anyone recently?” Sherlock asked.

John gulped, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, but tried to keep a blank face.

“I don’t know” Marcie said. “You? No? I will ask Tina, her best friend. Perhaps she knows.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Hey, I’m not on that list, am I?” Rick asked Sherlock.

John almost laughed; Rick was shorter than him, and the only sport that he had ever practised was football… in videogames. Sherlock shook his head and met John’s eyes. They both smiled.

“John, please?”

Someone needed him in another group, so John left them to their task.

* * *

 

As the week was passing, things started to calm down. Claire came back to school on Thursday. She was quiet and shy, far from her usual self, and stepped back every time someone tried to give her a comforting hug.

“I hope you are feeling better” John said, smiling forcefully and feeling terribly clumsy.

The girl just nodded and started to work.

At the end of the lesson, everybody tucked their equipment away quickly and ran to the cafeteria. Tina was already waiting for Claire out the door; she was going with her everywhere now, apparently, and the teachers allowed it. Good. John turned to Sherlock and saw him already tidying up his table; he felt slightly disappointed. The boy didn’t look at him, but he was obviously conscious of John’s eyes fixed on him. John noticed the boy’s bangs were longer than at the beginning of the term, and his curls came over his eyes when he was looking down. Suddenly, Sherlock glanced at him sideways and John realised, a bit embarrassed, that he was staring; he tried to focus in tidying up his own desk. Sherlock stopped by him on his way out. John refused to comment on his going out on time; a wave goodbye would suffice.

“Robson hasn’t been arrested yet” the boy said. “He is under surveillance, though, but I don’t think he is our man.”

John considered those words.

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure. But somehow he doesn’t fit.”

“He was in the list.”

“Yes, I know… I still don’t know why, but I would say the attacker was a student, not a member of the staff.”

John watched the way Sherlock’s eyes twinkled when he talked; if Chemistry arose enthusiasm from the boy, discussing a crime enticed him even more. Sherlock suddenly frowned.

“You are smiling, why?”, the boy asked.

John chuckled, feeling a sudden rush of fondness towards the boy.

“Nothing. Have a good weekend, Sherlock.”

The teenager nodded, suspicious, and went out the lab.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of kudos to Distantstarlight for betaing chapter 2 and this one! 
> 
> And, as always, thank you for reading and commenting; reviews make my day! ;)

The next Monday, John told his classroom to group in fours again to finish last week’s tasks, and he approached the front row group as soon as it was safe to do it without any other student eavesdropping.

“Have they arrested anyone?” he asked Rick, as quietly as he could.

The boy shook his head.

“Sadly, no. My father says they don’t have enough evidence about Robson, and that he would end free of charges if he was to be sent to Court right now.”

“I see”, John sighed.

“Why did the Yard think he is the main suspect in the first place?” Sherlock whispered.

“He had been fined before for physical abuse to his girlfriend”, Rick answered. “My father says it’s the only thing they have found”.

“No alibi and a violent background”, Nell mumbled. “Well, it’s something, but not enough. I think a student would fit better as the attacker.”

Sherlock looked at her, surprised.

“Why do you say so?” he asked her.

Nell leaned forward, her head almost touching Marcie and Sherlock’s foreheads, and adopted a conspiracy tone.

“I managed to speak with Tina. She was very reluctant; she seems to think Claire’s attack was her fault, because she left her alone, and now she has turned extremely protective of her friend.” Five pair of eyes turned to look surreptitiously to the victim, who was staring by the window while her group worked on the chemistry questions. “ _But_ , after some insisting, she told me she couldn’t remember anyone Claire had rejected recently. The problem, as I see it, is that even though Claire never dates, she usually ends up snogging someone at every party. She never goes further, but perhaps some boy felt she was leading him on…”

“So it’s definitely a student”, Sherlock added, with bright eyes.

Nell smiled at him.

“Clearly. Claire wouldn’t kiss or flirt with a handyman! Robson must be at least thirty!”

“Sssshh, guys, keep your voices low, please”, John asked, worried. Some of the other students were starting to look at them.

He left the group and went to check the rest of the classroom. He kept an eye on Sherlock and the others, though, and was a bit surprised to notice that Nell and Sherlock were talking way more than usual. Talking _and giggling_. John turned his back to them, feeling confused. That was good, isn’t it? That’s what working in small groups was for. In Sherlock’s case, it was almost a miracle, seeing him enjoying of someone else’s company, but still, it was good.

When the lesson had ended and he retreated to the corridor, walking slowly to his second period, he wondered again about that sudden tang of jealousy he had felt before, and he arrived to the conclusion that it was understandable: since the beginning of the year, he had been Sherlock’s only friend at the school. He had gotten used to that situation, and it was normal that now he felt a bit possessive when he finally had to share Sherlock with other friends. But it was only for the best: Sherlock needed friends of his age. Nell, Marcie and Rick were clever, funny and nice, and it was good that Sherlock finally got along with them. No, scratch that, it was _brilliant_.

Anyway, that Thursday on the lab he followed a wicked impulse and, completely out of the blue, he asked Nell:

“I see you get along with Sherlock lately… What happened to that Mark you said you fancied?”

Nell and Marcie, who was pairing with her also in the lab, giggled and shushed John.

“Nell!!” Marcie whispered loudly, “You didn’t tell me!”

“Hey, don’t judge me, remember when Sherlock arrived to Greenwood? He was fourteen, and we all thought he was a cutie pie!” Nell almost chocked, laughing. But she sobered up a bit and added, looking at John. “Not that he would ever pay me any attention, mind you…”

“That’s what I meant!” Marcie said. “He’s not interested in girls.”

John felt a bit silly and at a loss of words. He wanted to ask, but he did remember the girls had already told him some stories… that he had chosen to forget. Luckily for him, Nell was so willing to tell them again that she didn’t need to be asked.

“When he arrived, transferred from another school, he was very shy”, she told him. “But he soon became friends with another boy, Will Johnson. They were inseparable for a year and a half. But then, last year, Sherlock opened his heart, or tried to kiss Will, something like that, and Will was mad at him. Will started to mock him in front of everybody, and told all his friends a lot of strange stories about Sherlock.”

John felt his heart crumpling and couldn’t help staring at the boy, who was focused in his task, oblivious to their conversation.

“What a bastard!” Marcie exclaimed.

“Yeah, Sherlock was devastated”, Nell added.

The three of them watched the boy until he noticed the sudden attention and raised his face to look in their direction, puzzled. All three pretended to be busy with the experiment at once. John coughed, feeling his cheeks warm. _I bet I’m red as a beetle_ , he thought. _John, let the topic go. In fact, move your ass to another table_.

“Ehem… and now? Is he seeing anyone?” he asked, feeling completely stupid.

Marcie and Nell exchanged a naughty look and giggled again.

“How in Earth haven’t you noticed yet?” Nell answered. “You men are so blind sometimes… It’s quite obvious Sherlock has a huge crush on you, John.”

 _Sherlock has a… And the girls have noticed, oh my god_. He managed to close his mouth, but he didn’t feel like moving at all: his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. His eyes moved involuntarily to Sherlock. The boy was watching him, and at seeing his glance, he smiled at him. It wasn’t anything naughty, just a warm and friendly smile, but John felt confusion spreading through his whole body and knotting firmly in his stomach. He finally moved towards his desk, without smiling back.

 

* * *

 

 

That night he dreamt of Sherlock. They were fumbling against each other, rubbing the bare skin of their chests, their trousers still on. In his dream, he ran his lips over Sherlock’s clavicle, and let his hands wander by the boy’s ribs, marvelling at the softness of his flesh, the warmth that seemed to shroud them both, the unexpected hardness of his chest, suddenly a bony hip that fitted just perfect inside the palm of John’s hand… He woke up panting, asking for more aloud, and then realising it was just a dream and palming himself, his own throbbing and hot self, and pumped hard closing his eyes and evoking Sherlock’s skin, wishing he had dreamt a little longer, that he had the chance to know the taste of his lips, even though it was in dreams.

He came with a cry, and tried to get asleep as fast as possible, knowing if he stayed awake just some minutes more, he would start to feel guilty and fucked.

* * *

 

 

He couldn’t hold those feelings at bay the next morning, of course, and regret made his stomach churn. _Lusting after a pupil… Could I sink lower? And a boy, nonetheless… Well, as if it would make it any better if it was Marcie or Nell instead…_ John shuddered at the thought. He spent all the day thinking about it, staring at mid air in his lab periods, absently. What made things worst was the fact that Sherlock was infatuated with him; it would turn him not only into a molester, but into a cruel abuser if he followed his instincts. What he was feeling was sick, wrong, and the only possible path of action was avoiding Sherlock as much as possible. It was only a fleeting attraction, the logical outcome of too much time without being laid. It would pass in a couple of weeks.

He whatsapped some friends from the army, hoping one of them would be available to go out that Saturday night, and luckily Bill was free and willing. John went back home feeling slightly better.

He tried to keep himself busy and in company all the weekend, deciding that spending time with his two flatmates could be nice, for a change. Well, watching football with them was okay, but sadly they had few more things in common.

Saturday night with Bill was fun, as well. They went to a popular club in Leicester Square, full of elegant chicks and handsome men, where both of them felt slightly out of place, with their comfortable but rather ordinary clothes, until they had a couple of pints and started with whisky. Then things got better, they told army jokes until they realised they had got public; their new friends led them to another pub where they attempted to dance, and soon Bill was too drunk to stand up, and the situation seemed so funny to John that he couldn’t stop grinning. He didn’t see any girl whom he felt attracted enough in all the night. He even took a look at the men. Nothing. In the end, he helped Bill stand and, instead of taking a cab, they walked across half London, singing army songs and remembering still more funny stories.

“I’m sorry, John”, Bill mumbled when they arrived to his flat, safe and sound. “I know you expected to get laid tonight, I’ve fucked your chance.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t find anyone interesting. And it was great, we should repeat it!”

John arrived home and slept without a dream. Come morning, he felt at the same time relieved and disappointed. And he had an awful hangover.

* * *

 

 

He started his week with Sherlock’s group, as always. John avoided looking at him, what was easy, because he sat on a side of the classroom, and John could focus his wandering gaze on the centre. But then, after the explanation, Sherlock raised his hand to ask a question, as he usually did, and John’s eyes were caught on the soft curve of Sherlock’s lips, those lips he had never tasted, not even in dreams. He had to cough and ask the boy to repeat the question. This time John looked at a blank point upon Sherlock’s head.

He did the same on Wednesday and in the lab the next day. Sherlock worked alone in his task, looking at John now and then, and John didn’t need Sherlock’s observation skills to read the boy face, it was clearly screaming: “Why are you avoiding me?” When Sherlock stopped by John’s desk at the end of the lesson, John got up quickly and apologised:

“I’m really sorry, but I have an appointment and I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

And he took his folder, saw the students out and closed the door behind Sherlock. He could feel those bright cat-like eyes on his back while he walked away, piercing him, and could imagine vividly the hurt expression on Sherlock’s face. _I’m sorry, Sherlock. So, so sorry…_

The next week was more or less the same. He avoided looking at Sherlock during the day, and thinking of him during the night. The second was harder than the first. All the loneliness he had been accumulating since he returned from the army attempted to jump over his shoulders at once, and even when he let his mind wander by the whole list of beautiful actresses that usually made do for him, now it was useless, and he just wasted his time and got distracted, until his dreamt Sherlock filled his mind and made him focus. He often stopped and went to have a shower instead. Perhaps joining a gym would be a good idea. Sport, showers and friendly company: that would finish with any fleeting sick interest.

They were already in December, and the students’ conversation revolved around the Christmas holidays, the recent events mostly on the background. It was Thursday, that meant Sherlock’s group lab hour. But John had already delivered the worksheets to his pupils, and Sherlock still wasn’t there. He asked Marcie and Nell if he had come that day, and they said so. It was a bit worryingly. Was Sherlock so uncomfortable with his avoidance that he preferred to play truant now? At last, a quarter past the time of the beginning of the lesson, the door opened and there

he was, Sherlock Holmes in his long dark trench coat, scruffy dark curls and a dark eye to match.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, alarmed. He turned towards the classroom. “Alright, guys, please keep working, I’m having a word with Sherlock in the corridor. Please be quiet, I can hear every word!”

He almost pushed the tall boy out again. Sherlock sighed and walked a few feet away before stopping. His fingers were reckless until he opted for putting his hands inside his coat pockets. John betted he was dying for a cigarette; he knew the boy smoked now and then, although he had never seen him. He would have to abstain now, though: he wasn’t going to let him go anywhere.

“What happened, Sherlock? Was that Adrian again?”

Sherlock avoided John’s eyes, but answered all the same.

“Some of his minions today; he seems to be very busy of late. Don’t worry, I went to the cafeteria to put something cold on it, I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt it, but perhaps you need a bit of extra help. What do your parents say about this?”

Sherlock sighed again and let himself fall onto the floor, sitting with his forearms on his knees.

“I started Secondary school in the same school my brother was attending… Saint Peter’s”. John nodded, he knew that school. It was the best one in the area, and the natural choice for someone as brilliant as Sherlock but who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, go to a public school. In fact, John had asked him before why he had chosen such an ordinary school as Greenwood, but that time Sherlock had just shrugged. “I didn’t fit there; the teachers hated me, my brother was too busy to put me under his umbrella and I rubbed some bullies the wrong way… So after years of begging, my parents allowed me to change schools. But when I had just arrived here, Adrian came to greet me with his usual newcomer’s prank, and I told him a couple of things I should better have closed my mouth about…” Another sigh, but Sherlock finally looked at John’s eyes. “My parents are concerned about me, sure, but they won’t let me change school again. And, in the end, this is my last year, so it doesn’t matter any more”.

“I will get them detention the whole next week, Sherlock, but I wished I could do a bit more…”

Sherlock’s jaw tensed and his eyes flashed with sudden anger.

“ _Don’t_.”

“What…?”

“Just _don’t_ , John. If there’s one thing I don’t need from you, that’s your _pity_ ”. Sherlock almost spat the last word.

He turned his face in disgust and got up from the floor, enveloping himself on his long trench coat and turning up his lapels. John felt tempted to grin, _this boy and his dramatics_!, but he refrained.

“Who’s talking about pity?” he said, instead. “You are a brilliant young man, strong, independent and stubborn. Why would I pity you?”

Sherlock glanced him askance, his face unreadable.

“Secondary school and uni will come to an end, and you will still be your brilliant self. Who knows where those bullies will be? Not in your league, that’s for certain. Just ignore them, Sherlock.”

The boy looked again down to his shoes.

“What if those bullies are right about me?” he whispered quietly.

“What do they say?”

“That I’m a freak, that I’m weird and mad. That I’m a lonely loony.”

John’s mouth was so dry that it felt suddenly as sandpaper. He licked his lips, thoroughly, trying to find words.

“You are not a freak, Sherlock” he managed to say. “Or, if you are, then you are a new kind of freak, one fantastic kind, I should add.”

Sherlock gaze found his, frowning.

“But still, you don’t like me” he threw accusingly at John.

“It’s not like that!” John exclaimed, sighing. “Can you please remember you are my pupil, and underage? We can’t even discuss that, can’t you see it?”

“I’m over the age of consent! I’ll be seventeen next month!”

John mentally facepalmed.

“Seventeen? I thought you already were!”

“In primary school I skipped a year, they put me forward.”

“So you are in fact just sixteen?” _Now I’m the one who needs a cigarette, and I don’t even smoke._

“Only for one month more, John, I’ve just explained.”

Sherlock kept staring at his teacher, but he pointedly refused to return his gaze. John was trying to compose himself enough to come back to the lab. But then, Sherlock added:

“What if I asked you again in the summer, when the year finishes? You won’t be my teacher by then.”

John’s heartbeats menaced to jump off his chest. He dared a quick look in Sherlock’s direction: the boy was smiling. A warm, lovely smile, without anger, without flirtation, just a tug of his lips and a sparkle in his incredibly deep blue eyes. John found himself smiling back before he noticed.

“You are missing lab time, you idiot” he told the boy, holding the door open for him. “Come inside before the hour ends!”

* * *

 

 

Curiously, now that they have finally talked, John felt more relaxed, and if Sherlock came to his mind that weekend (and he did), it was not the “wet dream Sherlock” who appeared, but the smiling clever boy, proud, strong and somewhat childish, and his thought didn’t hunter John’s nights with impossible lust, but rather filled him with affection. _This is better_ , he thought. _Is it?_ he asked himself. But as long as he hadn’t anything to feel guilty about, he could rub off the doubts.

Monday lesson was… nice. Comfortable, amicable, sharing witty jokes with Marcie, Nell and Rick, and Sherlock still sitting by the racks, but clearly eavesdropping and smiling to their comments. The whole morning was quite acceptable, in fact, with even his worst group mostly behaving. Lunch with Mike and Molly commenting on football and some gossip, anything especial, but anything wrong either, and John was glad for that. But peace never lasts, in John’s experience, so why would it last then?

As soon as he stepped off the cafeteria, he knew something was off. Mike and Molly didn’t seem to notice, but there was definitively something. When he saw Sherlock running up the stairs to the second floor, jumping two at a time, he had the evidence he needed. He apologised to his mates and ran after Sherlock.

The second floor corridor should be quite empty; there was still fifteen minutes left until the bell chimed, announcing the afternoon lessons. But a small crowd was gathering around the girls’ toilets. John begged to be let pass and, when he managed to peek inside the toilets, his heart sank.

Sergeant Gregson and two more yarders were talking to a couple of very frightened girls. The girls’ toilets featured a long mirror, unlike the boys’ one, which displayed just bare tiled walls. A long mirror that sported now a huge crack above one of the washbasins, a crack stained in red. Some blood drops were splattered here and there on the floor. And Sherlock, of course, was already there.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oi, you! Get the hell out of here!”, Sergeant Gregson barked.

The words where obviously directed at Sherlock, but the boy looked oblivious, too busy crouched under the washbasin, feeling the floor with both hands. John had no idea of what he was doing, but at the insistence of Gregson’s shouts, the boy raised his face and looked expectantly at John. _Okay_.

John took Gregson’s sleeve. The Yarder turned to look at him, annoyed at first, and incredulous when he finally met John’s face and realised who he was.

“You again? What the fuck are the two of you doing in another crime scene, mister…?”

“Watson. Look, Sergeant, this boy is really clever and intuitive; you wouldn’t believe the amount of details he can observe in a moment…”

“Get the boy out of here, Mister Watson. And please, disappear yourself, got it? You cannot be here, my colleagues are trying to take pics.”

“We will go off right now, of course; nothing furthest of our minds that bothering you and your colleagues. Scotland Yard has all our respect”. John could see Sherlock with the corner of his eye; his student gestured him to go on. “In fact, I wanted to talk you about this boy, because he really admires your work and would like to be a Scotland Yard officer one day…”

“That’s all really fine, Mister Watson, but please now…”

“I know, I know! I just wanted to thank you for your work here at the school; you make the girls feel somewhat safer. And… are you sure you don’t want to hear Sherlock’s impressions on the attacker? He is quite impressive, you know…”

“Mister Watson!” Gregson shouted, a thick vein in his forehead trembling. “Off you go, now!”

“But of course! Just… one last question. Can I know the name of the victim? Just to know if it was again one of my pupils…”

The cop sighed and rubbed his forehead, soothing his poor vein.

“Her name is Saskia Jankowska. She’s been taken to Queen Elizabeth Hospital, if you want to inquire.”

“Thank you very much, Sergeant!”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him out of the toilets. The officers had already put yellow tape, with the “no crossing- Police investigation” letters, out the door, and the group of onlookers was even larger than before. The bell chimed, the Head Teacher approached the crime scene, and suddenly all the people disappeared, heading for their classrooms. Sherlock and John slipped into the next boys’ toilet.

“Sorry I couldn’t buy you more time”, John said at once. “What do you have?”

“I don’t know the girl, but she is not in Sixth Form, so she is younger than Claire. We will go for same height, perhaps a couple inches less…”

A boy came out of one of the stalls, looking at them with curiosity.

“You are late, please do hurry!” John urged, and the boy jumped in surprise and ran out the door.

Sherlock kept pacing as if anyone had interrupted them.

“I could do with some help from your part, do you mind, John?”

John shrugged.

“Of course; what do you need?”

“As you are more or less the same height of the victim… and I’m more or less the same height of the attacker…”

“Oh, I know”, John sighed. “OK. Where am I, what posture?”

“Come here… I could see the girl when they were taking her out in a stretcher, just a glimpse, but with the position of her injury re-enacting the attack is child’s play… You, John, come from the stall and go to that washbasin to wash your hands…” He stopped for a moment while John came nearer the washbasin Sherlock was pointing to. He opened the tap and turned to look at Sherlock, expectant. “The attacker came from behind. This time he was wearing some kind of mask or balaklava, because the victim had a mirror in front of her and could see him coming. He took the girl by her neck”. He approached John from behind and anchored his left arm around the teacher’s neck, like a python. “With his other hand, the dominant one, he forced the girl down”. He acted that part too, and John gasped when his forehead touched the cold tiles in front of him. ”The victim struggled to get free, and the man hit her head against the mirror, which cracked. I’m not sure if the victim lost consciousness or not with this.”

Sherlock pushed John’s head down, against the washbasin, his torso glued to his teacher’s back. John was suddenly very aware of the warmth and muscles enveloping him, and he refused to acknowledge if there was a hardness pushing against his bum or not. Instead, he focused in keeping his own breath even and in the details of the rape.

“I… I don’t think so”, he managed to mumble. He was keeping his balance with one hand on the cold china, and then used his free hand to pull at Sherlock’s wrist. “You are cutting my breath…”

“Sorry”. The grip loosened a little. “Alright, the girl was conscious. But in this posture, she couldn’t move much. The attacker used his dominant hand to push her trousers and underwear down… That part is clear as day, so there’s no need to re-enact it…”

With that, he let go of John completely. The teacher stood up, rubbing his neck and gazing sideways at his pupil, glad of the sudden space between them.

“So… does it help us at all? Is there something new?”

“Perhaps”. The boy started pacing again, his hands behind his back. “The height and amount of force used match the previous rape, so I don’t think is ventured to attribute this crime to the same attacker.”

“Of course it’s not!” Sherlock glared at him. “Excuse me, go on!”

“The same attacker… A Greenwood student. But now he had the prevision of wearing a mask, and doing it in a safer place… The second floor toilets, at lunch time? Who would go there?”

“Do you think he asked the girl to meet him there?”

“Could be, yes. What is clear is the fact that, this time, he planed the attack. With Claire, he was just testing the waters, now he knows exactly what he wants to do. And he has no qualms in using the violence to achieve it. Claire was the first and… Oh!”

The boy stopped his pacing and his words all of a sudden.

“Sherlock? What happens?”

“I know who the attacker is!”

And with these words, Sherlock ran out the door. Startled, John followed him, trying not to make too much noise in the silent corridor. The boy had run to the lockers, located at both ends of the corridors, and was now opening his. He took his schoolbag out and searched inside for a moment. He finally handed John a copy of the suspects list he had worked out.

“How could I be so blind, John? It was in front of our noses all this time…”

John took a look at the list again, still puzzled.

“Sherlock. Could you please explain…?”

“I have already done it!” Sherlock pointed to the list again, impatient.

“OK, excuse me for being slower than you!” John exclaimed, annoyed. Then he realised they were still in the corridor, while the rest of the people were inside the classrooms, working, and lowered his voice. “What am I missing?”

“Isn’t it obvious, John?” Sherlock snorted. “The attacker is in Claire’s group, in MY group. He watched her every day, that’s why he chose precisely Claire. Possibly, he didn’t even ask her out or anything; he just watched her flirt with a lot of boys and got angry.”

John went again to the list, searching greedily. There was only a name of the list that belonged to Sherlock’s group. He raised his eyes again from the paper; Sherlock was looking at him, intensely, his eyes green this time, with a touch of yellow that made them look like if his eyes were in fire.

“Simon. Do the rest of features match? I didn’t know he practised any sport…”

Sherlock shook his head.

“No, but he helps his father in the afternoon. His family runs a meat warehouse. Lots of carrying heavy boxes, perhaps even using the cleaver… That makes do for the rough hands. And he is strong, as tall as me…”

“God, he is twice your size! His voice is not exactly deep, though.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Claire said he had something over his mouth. His t-shirt, perhaps. And he has certainly changed his voice.”

“Alright.” John sighed, his head spinning. “So, we know who the attacker is. What can we do now? Should we try to convince Gregson that we have found the man?”

Sherlock frowned and started pacing again, rubbing his lips with his fingers.

“He would never listen to us! God, I need a cigarette!”

“Let’s go out of here. You are not going to the next lesson either?”

Sherlock grinned and took his schoolbag, as if such a silly question didn’t deserve an answer. John found himself following him again, this time down the stairs and out of the building. As soon as they arrived to the front stairs, outside, Sherlock produced a cigarette from his coat pocket and lighted it.

“Ah, that’s better!”

John stared at him, frowning.

“Sherlock, you know you shouldn’t smoke, right?”

Sherlock dedicated him a lopsided grin.

“Yes, teacher. Can we go back to our more interesting topic of how to find evidences against Simon Wells?”

John sat on the first bench of the school ground, sighing. He felt suddenly rather impotent; how could it be possible, that they knew who the rapist was, but nobody was going to believe them? Not when their hands were empty. They needed evidences, something tangible that Scotland Yard would accept. That seventeen year old criminal was right now sitting in his classroom, looking all innocent and smiling innerly at how clever he was. _Oh my God. Marcie and Nell and the rest of the girls of the group… They are all in danger until we can put him in jail!_ , he thought.

“Relax, John”. Sherlock’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “He won’t attack any soon. He needs time to pick his next victim and plan it all”.

John nodded while a chill ran across his back.

“Until all the school has relaxed”, John said. “That’s when he will attack again.”

“At this time of the year, that means after Christmas. So we have almost a month to plan how to set him a trap.”

Sherlock turned suddenly, his long coat snapping the air, and started to walk with long strides towards the grounds exit.

“Hey! Sherlock!” John ran after him, cursing. “You can’t be sure about that! What if he has already picked a victim? What if he doesn’t want to wait?”

Sherlock threw the cigarette butt, exhaling a last puff of white smoke.

“Both attacks have been inside the school, I doubt he will attack during the Christmas break. He has found his modus operandi by now, he won’t deviate. We should keep an eye on him until the holidays begin. That would make you feel better?”

“Well, yes.”

John stopped at the gate, slightly breathless for trying to keep up with the young man’s strides. Sherlock didn’t turn this time, just kept walking fast, his schoolbag hanging loosely from his shoulder, and waved him with his free hand.

“See you tomorrow, Doc!”

 

* * *

 

The next ten days passed in a blur. Sherlock and John compared their timetables and reckoned that it would be slightly difficult to watch Simon Wells during all the school hours, being just two people, so John proposed enlisting Rick, Marcie and Nell for the surveillance; after some insisting, Sherlock grudgingly accepted. John didn’t say it, but it made him feel better knowing that the girls were aware of who was their main suspect. His students were shocked by the news, but they joined with enthusiasm. So promptly there was always someone waiting for Simon Wells at the outer gate, leaning against the wall while playing with their phones, or pretending to tie their trainers. Someone followed his very movements on his way towards his classroom. When he went to the toilet, someone raised their hand after a minute and asked to go to take care of an “emergency”. Same with every break and lunch time. Simon Wells was thoroughly watched until he disappeared streets away from Greenwood every afternoon.

“He doesn’t seem to pay any attention to girls”, Marcie commented at lab hour. Simon was in the other half-group, where Rick was keeping an eye on him, so they could talk more freely.

“It doesn’t mean anything”, Sherlock pointed out. “It is possible that he has already chosen a victim, even that he chose his victims weeks or months ago.”

“Always SO reassuring, Sherlock”, Marcie snorted.

“Did you manage to talk to Saskia’s friend, Nell?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Marcie. She frowned and attempted a poke at him, which he dodged easily without even looking at her.

Nell nodded.

“Yep. You know she was just _fifteen_?” John grabbed the table tighter, feeling goose bumps down his back. _What a sick bastard; the poor little girl_. Nell sighed and kept talking. “You were right, Sherlock: Saskia received a note from a secret admirer, asking her to meet him at lunch time at the second floor toilets. But the note also said she must burn the note as soon as she had read it.”

“And she did”, Sherlock mumbled, biting his lower lip, his eyes glazed and lost in his own thoughts.

“Sadly, yes”, Nell confirmed. “I still can’t believe it, she’s so… small. Are you sure about our suspect, Sherlock? Because I’m tempted to steal my father’s hammer and sculpt a new face on that monster.”

“We need evidence, but yes, ninety per cent sure.”

“What if he attacks someone during the Christmas break?” Marcie asked.

Sherlock sighed, and John could tell he had already disconnected from the conversation. ‘ _Boring_ ’, he would say. Because they had discussed about that again and again; Sherlock was sure that scenario wouldn’t happen, but of course the rest had their doubts. They all agreed Sherlock was a genius, but all those policemen around the school made the students grumpy; and the staff wasn’t very happy, either.

The Christmas break couldn’t come too early.

 

 

* * *

 

But the first day of holidays arrived at last, and they were really happy to leave the uneasiness behind Greenwood’s walls. John thought that, first of all, he was going to make up for all the lost sleep of the last weeks. His phone chiming at eight a.m. broke that idyllic plan.

He grunted and reached for his damned phone, and then tried to read the whatsapp sender through his still half closed eyes. When he managed, all the sleep dissolved at once.

_‘Did you tell me I could whatsapp you if I had any news of S.? SH’_

John hurried to answer.

_‘Yes, of course!’_

_‘Can I whatsapp you even if I don’t have any news of him?’ SH_

John giggled. That stupid, stupid genius…

_‘I think that’s exactly what you are doing right now.’_

_‘Alright. Good to know.’_

And that was all for the day. The next day was Christmas Eve, and John took the train northwards and met his parents and sister for dinner. Everything was fine, or at least they pretended it was. They ran out of topics to talk about very soon, though, but his mother had the brilliant idea of taking out their family photo albums. His sister, Harry, and him obviously protested, but a punch and an album later they were laughing like little kids, and the house-made dinner filled the whole house with a delicious smell. His phone buzzed, and John fished it from his trouser’s back pocket.

_‘My brother is still more insufferable than I remember, and my mum has burned the goose. Send help!’ SH_

John smiled lazily.

“Oooh, is there a girlfriend, then?” Harry smirked.

“Sadly, no. Just a pupil.”

“Now you give your phone number to your pupils, John?” his sister berated him, frowning. “Isn’t it against ethics, or something like that”

John felt slightly ashamed, remembering too well some of his feelings about Sherlock, until he reassured himself, claiming that the main reason he had given Sherlock, Rick and the girls his number was a cent per cent honest reason.

“That’s none of your business, you busybody.”

But he pocketed his phone without answering the message. At midnight, though, after they toasted and wished the best for each other, he took out his phone again and sent a quick:

_‘Happy Christmas, Sherlock! I hope you are having a nice evening after all’_

The answer arrived less than a minute after:

_‘Honestly, it would be much better if you were here’ SH_

John’s heart skipped a beat. His phone, still in his hand, buzzed again.

_‘Sorry, happy Christmas to you too’ SH_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was silent on Christmas and Boxing days. John was aware of it because he began to have the habit of checking his phone for messages every five or ten minutes. The 27th he couldn’t help it any more.

 _‘Have you checked the news? Anything that seems related to S.?’_ he sent.

The answer, as always, was fast as light.

_‘Yes, I have, and no, anything at all. SH’_

And thirty seconds after:

_‘The most boring Christmas I can remember in years. SH’_

_‘Sorry to hear that. Any good present?’_ John asked, smiling at his phone.

_‘Ppppfffff. My mum gave me one jumper that matches those horrible ones you wear sometimes. SH’_

_‘Oi! Don’t insult my jumpers!’_

_‘By the way, your mother and mine could meet and become friends: mine also gave me a jumper’_

_‘Oh, not another one. SH’_

_‘Yessssss… Put yours on the first day of school and we will match.’_

_‘No way I’m wearing that. It’s simply distasteful. SH’_

_‘Isn’t it always, when our mothers pick it? Got a pic of the offensive jumper?’_

A full minute after, a pic arrived: a green angora wool jumper with turtle neck.

_‘Not that bad, but yes, not your style. Wanna see mine?’_

_‘No. SH’_

_Oh_ , John thought. _Fun is over_.

_‘I prefer to see it when you are wearing it. SH’_

John tried to think of what to say to that. He thought about it for five full minutes, and his phone seemed to weigh more in his hands every minute that went by. At last the device buzzed again.

_‘Aren’t you going to tell me off for the innuendos? How unusual of you… SH’_

_That’s enough_ , John thought, sweating.

_‘Can you please stop it? We will talk back in the school,’_

_‘That’s what I expected you to say. I’ll text you if I hear something about our suspect. SH’_

John sighed and pocketed his phone.

He kept checking it from time to time, more sparingly now, but no more messages from Sherlock arrived.

He attended a New Year’s Eve party with his friend Bill, and at midnight, when all the couples kissed and the fireworks turned the dark sky into a golden and fabulous landscape, he typed a fast _‘Happy New Year, Sherlock’_ on his phone. But when he was about to send it, he remembered at once the previous days’ conversations and preferred to delete it.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of love to my beta in this story, Distantstarlight :)  
> Any remaining mistake, as always, is only my fault, of course.

The school opened again the next Monday, but the holidays’ festive flair had vanished quickly, and the uneasiness was still hanging over Greenwood as a grey cloud, a dense presence that turned the air almost unbreathable. The security guard dressed in black at the front gate didn’t help to raise the moods. John saw at first glance that Rick was on his watching place, sitting on a bench and pretending to read a comic-book; he approached him and sat by his side. A quick rest before the lessons of the day would do wonders to his aching leg, anyway.

“Morning, John!” Rick greeted him. “I hope you had a great time on Christmas.”

“Not bad. Hope yours was good, too. Nice presents?”

Rick’s face lit up and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he seemed to change his mind and spoke quietly:

“I told my father about S. and about Sherlock’s list.”

John’s heart leapt, excited. His eyes swept the school gate: still no suspect at sight.

“He was glad that I told him, and he thought it was really clever. But he agreed with us, without evidence we have nothing against S. And Sergeant Gregson is too stubborn to listen to any external help, he said. He told me he would suggest S.’s name at the Yard, as if it was his own idea, and he asked me to have our eyes open and phone him if we ever observe anything off.”

“Good. We can’t do anything else, can we?”

Rick smiled.

“We are the school watchers! Not bad for me!”

John smiled back. The huge and distinctive shape of Simon Wells entered the corner of his eye, and Rick and he turned to look at him and then pretended to be talking about something else. Simon arrived with a friend, and didn’t seem to notice them or the security guard. After a moment, Rick and John stood up and followed Simon across the grounds. Nell was leaning casually against the stone parapet at one side of the front doors, listening to music on his phone, and she seemed to be just waiting for a friend before going inside the building. Simon looked at her, and when he passed by her side he greeted her with a nod. John thought for a moment that the boy was going to stop and talk to her, but he finally followed his friend inside. Nell noticed, too, and avoided his eyes. She looked down the front stairs instead, and her gaze found John’s and Rick’s watching her; her relief was obvious and pretty visible. Rick stopped by her side and John stepped in the school building alone, his eyes fixed on Simon’s movements. They were going to the same classroom, so it wasn’t strange that they took the same corridors and the same stairs.

Another huge shape interposed between the student and his tail, though. Mike Stamford, smiling widely, came closer and patted his back.

“John! I thought I was going to hear from you these holidays!”

“Oh, hello, Mike!” John greeted, his eyes still fixed on Simon’s back. “I’m sorry, but I went to my parents’ house for a couple of days.”

“Ah, of course. Was it very awful?”

John chuckled. Simon was in front of their classroom’s door now; according to their schedule, Sherlock would be already inside the classroom to keep an eye on Simon, so he could relax a bit.

“No, not awful, just boring. Well, my sister is still a pain in the arse, you know.”

Mike laughed.

“Yes, I remember that… How could I forget that Medicine party when your 17 year old sister got completely plastered and snogged Christy Evans in front of everybody? Shit, I still don’t know if I was more jealous or turned on! Christy Evans, nonetheless… The most beautiful woman in our group, three years daydreaming about her and then your sister arrives and takes her…”

“Well, Harry always has had good taste, I have to give that to her.”

The school bell chimed, and they waved goodbye, smiling, and parted ways. John stepped in his classroom and took a quick glance in his way to his desk. Simon was sitting on a table, close to the open window, chatting with a male mate. He was in general a quiet person, with just a handful of male friends, and he wasn’t cocky or a troublemaker as some boys of his age and constitution. John hadn’t even thought about him or talked to him before all this happened; Simon usually was diffused among the anonymous “main group”, as John noticed now. After all, teachers don’t have time to spend with students who don’t protrude above or below the mass.

Slowly, the rest of his pupils came in the classroom and started to throw his coats off and sit down. Rick arrived then; Marcie and Nell were still chatting at the door with a group of girls. Sherlock was already sitting down, playing with his phone as usual.

The boy was wearing a purple silk shirt again, and the deep colour made his skin look still paler and creamy, and his hair darker by contrast. John gulped and focused again in his lesson, deciding that anything unrelated to Chemistry would have to wait, be it teenage violent rapists or beautiful and clever pupils.

 

* * *

 

They kept the scheduled surveillance exactly the same as before Christmas. If anything, they had now a sense of anticipation, given that they all thought the next attack would be very soon: Simon had had all the Christmas holiday to plan, after all. The surveillance team spoke little of the topic, but the tension was there. Sherlock, in fact, didn’t talk at all, and he seemed distracted during the lessons. Neither of them both mentioned the Christmas messages, but at the end of Wednesday’s lesson Sherlock approached John’s desk with a little smile. _What’s in your mind, Sherlock? What are you devising against our attacker?_ John really felt the need of talking with the boy, but they didn’t have any excuse, and Simon was always too near.

“My birthday is tomorrow”, Sherlock said instead.

“Oh! Really? But of course, you said it was in January, I just didn’t expect it was so soon.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes, still smiling.

“Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?” he asked the boy. “Well, Chinese takeaway will have to do, of course.”

Sherlock raised his eyes again, bright green and clearly excited.

“It would be the best birthday present I can think of”, he answered.

John smiled back. _Good_. He took his thick folder and his bag.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

And he went off before someone else noticed his warm cheeks.

 

 

* * *

 

The next day’s lessons and surveillance seemed to last forever. John usually pondered thoroughly before deciding anything, but once the decision was made, he couldn’t relax until the deed was done. That day’s periods, especially the last one, had included lots of nervous finger-tapping on the table and lip-licking, and his leg was giving him a terrible time. He almost wished he could go home as soon as possible, and lie down on his couch with a blanket and watch tv the rest of the day. But that wouldn’t do, he had plans and wouldn’t, couldn’t chicken out now.

The last lab time finished and the students started to clean their tables and the equipment. Sherlock did the same, but took his time on purpose. John had tried to avoid staring at him during the lesson, but now he indulged in a long glance, half smiling. The boy was dress in sharp black, and by contrast his neck and his hands (the parts John could see right at that moment) looked pearly white, almost shiny. But then Sherlock turned, feeling John’s eyes piercing him, and his green eyes outshine everything else. The boy smiled widely and approached John’s desk, his schoolbag hanging loosely from one shoulder and his coat carefully folded on his arm. They waited a couple of minutes that way, standing by the desk and waving the last students on their way out, until they were finally alone. Sherlock was about to go out the door, too, but John asked him to wait with a gesture. He closed the lab door and went back to his desk; he fumbled with his bag, trying to take something big from inside and not succeeding at first.

“I’ve got a birthday present for you, Sherlock… if I manage to take it from my bag, that is, damn it! Ah, finally!”

And he handed Sherlock a thick and battered volume. The boy’s eyes widened at seeing it, and he opened it at once, browsing through the pages, stopping now and then to read a handwritten note or observing carefully a diagram.

“My Chemistry teacher gave it to me as a present in my last year at Barts”, John explained, smiling.

Sherlock raised his eyes from the book to look at him, shocked. He glanced at the huge book again.

“John, you can’t give me this.”

“Of course I can, and I’m doing it. You will take more advantage of it than me, believe me. And… ah, there’s a dedication on the first page.”

Sherlock hurried to look for it. There were some of them, in fact, each one in a different handwriting. Sherlock’s mouth went dry; the book had obviously passed from teacher to pupil in a number of occasions. Somehow it made it even more valuable for him, and he had to resist the urge of running his hand over it, caressing the worn-out yellowish paper. He read aloud the last and obviously more modern dedication:

“To the best student I have ever dreamt of having. You make it worth it, Sherlock”.

He looked at John again, visibly moved, and seemed to be trying to find words, trying to say ‘thank you’, when John simply stepped closer, put one hand on Sherlock’s cheek, tip-toed slightly and joined his lips to Sherlock’s. The boy opened his eyes wider and gasped. The kiss was light and really short, just a small peck, but afterwards John watched Sherlock expectantly. _Is he mad at me? Afraid? Too shocked?_ Shocked was the right answer, it seemed. John took the book from Sherlock’s hands and placed it carefully on his desk. The second he turned again towards his pupil, the boy grabbed his shoulders and almost threw himself on top of John, crushing his lips with his mouth. John laughed through the kiss, and after a moment he managed to dominate it, going from the mess of teeth and saliva Sherlock was doing to a deep and slow snog. He settled his hands on the warmth and softness of Sherlock’s waist, caressing it lightly with his thumbs, and savoured at last that mouth that had haunted his dreams so many times. He moved aside a bit to breathe and look again at Sherlock’s face. The boy had closed his eyes, and his mouth was red and completely messed up, his lips parted in a silent beg for more. John chuckled, fondly, and wiped Sherlock’s mouth with his hand. The boy opened again his eyes, surprised, and John came closer again (tip-toeing, _we need to do this sitting down, damn it_ ) and caught Sherlock’s lower lip between his, nipping it carefully and eliciting a delightful gasp from the boy. Sherlock was watching intensely now. His upper lip followed the same path as the lower one, and John traced the peeks of it with his tongue and his own lips. He noticed that Sherlock was holding his breath; John then tilted his head and went to kiss Sherlock again, but stopped just an inch from his lips, his breath ghosting on the barely open mouth that was waiting for him. Sherlock couldn’t help it, he moved forward and captured John’s mouth, deeply, hungrily, but trying to be less messy this time. His strong hands ran by John’s shoulders and arms, still shy of going further. John sighed, content, his own hands still at the small of Sherlock’s back, and enjoyed the warmth and dampness of that mouth for a few minutes more, loving the taste of it, tea and cigarettes and something sweet that only could be Sherlock himself, and the unusual hardness of the body between his arms, all sharp and angular when he was used to hold rounded and soft flesh. _Unusual but not in a bad way_ , he thought, encircling that brief waist that promised a skin as smooth and delicate as a girl’s.

At last he moved away and looked him in the eye.

“Hungry?”

Sherlock nodded, smiling, and let go of his shoulders. They took their coats and bags and went out the lab. John closed the door with his key, aware of the stupid smile still plastered on both of their faces, and resisted the urge of holding Sherlock’s hand along the corridor. They walked out side by side instead, Sherlock carrying the thick book under one arm, his coat folded on the same forearm, and his bag hanging from the opposite shoulder. They went out the building and the grounds without a word, in a comfortable silence, and ordered their food at the Chinese take away in the corner. They sat in the same bench as last time; it was just in front of the school, but at the same time out of it, so they felt free, in a way, but still conscious of their situation and the amount of eyes that could be watching them. They sat closer that the previous time, though. Sherlock waited until they had opened their food boxes and readied their sticks to ask, finally:

“I’m not complaining but, why have you changed your mind? What happened with all that “I don’t fancy boys, and I’m your teacher” and the rest of that moral rubbish?”

John pretended to study his chop suey for a moment, picking at his food with his wood sticks.

“I had plenty of time to think about it these Christmas”, he said at last. “The main reason teacher-student relationships are wrong is the fact that both participants are not even, the teacher is always in a higher position and takes advantage of someone younger and with less experience that looks up at them.” He turned to look at Sherlock’s eyes. “But in our case, Sherlock, it’s not like that. I look up at you. You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

“So we are even?” Sherlock smiled.

_Have you listened to me? Have you looked at yourself? Of course we are not even_ , John thought. But didn’t dare to say it aloud.

“Not exactly”, he said instead, smiling back. “But I don’t think you have to learn anything from me, that’s the point.”

“Well, my kissing technique needs some improving, I regret to say”.

John chuckled.

“Apart from that, obviously”.

“And… what happens next?” Sherlock asked after a moment. “Are we a couple?”

John sighed.

“With two conditions, and they are non-negotiable. First one, it has to remain a secret.”

“Until I finish at Greenwood?”

“And after as well. I’m sorry, but you are still seventeen. I feel bad enough, I would feel even worse if people started pointing at us in the street. So no-one from Greenwood can know, and neither your family.”

He studied Sherlock’s face in search of signs of disappointment, but he couldn’t find any.

“That’s OK. I’m not that close to anyone, so it won’t be a problem. I don’t want to bring you problems, John, you can trust me.” John nodded and put another piece of food in his mouth. “And the second condition?”

“No sex, at all, until the summer.”

“Hey, that’s mean! I’m seventeen, John, I’m grown up enough to have sex!”

“Not with a teacher, sorry, that’s out of the table. Listen to me, someone has to be the adult here, and it happens to be me. I’m not sleeping with a pupil, I wouldn’t even if you were already eighteen. So if we are patient enough to wait until the summer, it will mean something. If we are not, well, then it will mean that what we feel is just attraction.”

Sherlock’s face fell.

“I’m being tested, then.”

“The two of us, not only you”, John hurried to correct. “Don’t be so upset, Sherlock. We need time to know each other, after all.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but focused in eating his lunch. At the end, he stood up, smiling warmly at John, and went to throw the food containers to the bin. John went after him and placed his hand on Sherlock’s hip, casually, as he threw away his own lunch remains. Sherlock smiled wider, and let the heel of his hand rub John’s chest in his way back to the bench. Both men sat down again, feeling warm and satisfied, their hands itching to touch but settling for letting their knees bump together. Some of the students, the ones that had lunch at home or out the school as they had done, were coming back to the grounds, but they barely looked at John and Sherlock. It was really nice.

“Well”, John sighed at last, “now all we need is to know who will be the attacker’s next victim”.

Sherlock grinned mischievously.

“Oh, but I already know that…”

John arched his eyebrows in disbelief. _No way. This boy is going to be the death of me…_

“And when you were going to tell us, I wonder?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Who is it?”

“It’s Nell. Haven’t you noticed how Simon looks at her? She’s the only girl he has paid any attention at all during all this year, in fact, so it is possible that she was his intended victim since the beginning… John, are you listening to me?”

But John was looking frantically inside his bag, until he extracted their surveillance schedule. He looked up at Sherlock.

“It’s her turn today at lunch time, Sherlock… She is following him, alone!”

And with that, he grabbed his bag and started to run towards the school building.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

John could heard Sherlock’s steps running behind him on the gravel ground, the sound of their bumping books a monotonous ‘thud thud thud’ and his own blood pumping deafening loud in his ears. _Please, Lord, don’t let me be too late, please…_ When they arrived almost in front of the cafeteria, Sherlock overtook John thanks to his long legs and opened the outer door first. They stopped all of a sudden once inside, aware of the amount of eyes staring at them, hundreds of students eating lunch and chatting calmly, as if everything was alright, as if they didn’t have a violent rapist among them, a wolf into the flock of sheep. The other security guard approached them slowly, frowning. John and Sherlock looked around, breathing deep, ready to start running again if necessary, but then they saw her: Nell was sitting at her usual table, with Marcie, Rick and a couple of girls from another group. They were engaged in a lively conversation, it seemed, but Rick, Nell, and Marcie were completely aware of their triumphal entrance. The security guard stopped close to John, clearly waiting for an explanation.

“Sherlock, go with them, I’ll go in a minute”, John asked.

And he turned, trying to give the guard his best charming smile.

Two minutes and an elaborated lie after, he approached the table were his pupils were sitting down.

“Lydia, Rose, sorry, we have to go now”, Marcie said to the other girls. “John promised to give us five minutes of his time before the afternoon periods to check our group task. You don’t mind, right?”

And with that, Nell, Rick, Sherlock and she stood up and followed John out to the corridor.

“I think I’ll stay… I need a tea anyway”, Sherlock said.

John saw Simon sitting with his friend not too far from them across the crowded room, and nodded. As soon as they closed the door, he gathered the boys close around him and told them Sherlock’s thought. Nell face fell.

“That can’t be possible. No! Why me? I’ve never talked more than a couple of sentences with him.”

“Sherlock can be wrong”, Rick hurried to add. “He’s not infallible.”

But Marcie was thoughtful.

“I don’t know, Nell, I’m sorry but I think that Sherlock may be right. I have noticed how Simon looks at you, too. And last year…”

“That was nothing! I was only being nice to him!”

“Yeah, we both know that, but Simon is really shy, and I have never seen him talking much with any girl, so perhaps he thought…”

“Hey, hold on!” John interrupted. “I can’t follow you, what happened last year?”

“Are you talking about that time that Nell defended him?” Rick asked. “If it’s so, what would he want to hurt Nell? That makes no sense…”

“You defended him?” John tried to keep up. “What happened?”

Nell sighed.

“Some boys from Sixth Form accused Simon to steal money from the gym’s locker room. They even went to our tutor, and I don’t know why, but the man believed them. Simon was incredibly embarrassed and wasn’t able to say anything. I think he was just overwhelmed and panicked, and he couldn’t cope with the situation and say anything to defend himself. And everybody stared in silence, it was so wrong! So I stood up and told the boys and the tutor that Simon was obviously innocent, and said to them the places where their money could have fallen and lost. The tutor went with the boys to the locker room and, of course, they found their stupid money and afterwards they had to beg pardon to Simon.”

“So Simon is in debt with you”, John said, hesitant.

“I don’t get it”, Rick said, shaking his head.

“Simon was so grateful that started to be very nice to Nell”, Marcie followed, grabbing her friend’s arm. “And he asked her to go with him to the End of the Term party.”

“And you said ‘no’”, John added.

“But he wasn’t angry or anything!” Nell almost shouted. “This is stupid. It can be me. He acted completely normal after that, and the same this year.”

John sighed and came closer to the girl, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Simon is an unbalanced person, Nell; someone capable of hurting Claire and Saskia that way… like an animal… is not normal. Please keep that in mind.”

The afternoon lessons’ bell chimed, and the cafeteria’s door opened violently, pushed by a huge group of students joining them at the corridor.

“What do we do now, John?” Rick asked, worried. “Perhaps Nell should stay at home until we find what to do…”

“Or we could set a trap and get rid of this plague for good”, said a deep voice at their backs.

They turned in time to see Sherlock smiling, inches from them. Simon and his friend were behind him and coming closer to the door.

“Nell and I will watch him, together”, Marcie said at once, and the other girl nodded.

“Talk later?” Rick said, and started walking towards a group of nerdy boys, who greeted him with a smile.

Simon, his friend, and their tails passed in front of John and Sherlock and got lost among the crowd. John suddenly frowned and addressed Sherlock with an accusatory index at his chest.

“You! Come out of here, you git.”

He strode towards the teachers toilet, waited until nobody was looking and stepped in. He made Sherlock a ‘come in’ gesture and waited for him, keeping the door open. The boy followed him, looking uncertain, and went inside. John checked that the two stalls were empty, and closed the door with his key, keeping it in the keyhole.

“Can I know what the hell you were thinking about? Why didn’t you tell us you knew the next victim would be Nell?”

John was trying with all his will to keep his voice even and not to shout, but it was being hell to achieve. Sherlock looked a bit lost now.

“I only deduced it yesterday!” the boy said at last.

“And why didn’t you tell me yesterday, then?”

“I was going to… but then you invited me to lunch today. I couldn’t… I didn’t want to ruin it, a date with you…”

Sherlock looked really upset now, his mouth a tight line and his bright eyes lost somewhere in the wall tiles. John breathed deeply. _He’s a fucking teenager, what did you expect? Calm down and stop scaring him more, for god’s sake!_

John coughed and talked again, calmer this time.

“Sherlock, that was selfish, alright? Nell is in danger, and we must protect her; that comes first. Do you understand it?”

The boy nodded, still tense, but looking John in the eye.

“Now, you should go to your classroom or you will arrive late.”

“Are you angry at me?”

Sherlock’s voice broke a little at the last word, and John’s heart broke a little too. He stepped forward and hugged Sherlock, tight, inhaling the scent of his hair.

“Of course not. How could I.”

They parted a bit, still grabbing each other’s arms.

“You said we could set a trap. Send me a whatsapp later if you come with an idea on how to do it.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll do. I know exactly how we can do it. John…”

_I know, Sherlock_. The boy leaned in John’s personal space and kissed him deeply, his hands running through John’s short hair. There was a desperate note in his kiss, and John acknowledged it; he drew soothing patterns on the boy’s back, eager to reassure him. But he had to let go soon, too soon, and both sighed and parted ways.

 

* * *

 

When the first message from Sherlock arrived, John still had the scent of his pupil’s hair in his nose, in his head. He read the string of instructions (simple, logical, seemingly easy), and tried to focus on what was more important, and that wasn’t the unusual pounding of his mad heart, but the endangered life of Nell. He passed the information to Nell, and she did the same with Marcie and Rick. If everything happened without further complication, the next day all that awful matter would be finished.

* * *

 

Beyond any doubt, Friday was the best day at Greenwood, the main feature being that Sixth Formers didn’t have afternoon lessons. In fact, John only had one hour of school availability and then a Department meeting, and afterwards he was free to go home if he wished. He checked his wrist clock: still ten o’clock. He wandered for a while in the cafeteria, letting his tea go cold and unable to focus in his bundle of homework to grade. His mind went back then and again to how Nell would handle her part: during that morning, she had to ensure that Simon overheard her telling to Marcie she was going to stay at the lab at lunch time, since John had lent her the key and allowed her to do some more practice exercises on her own; so no need for Marcie to wait for her after the last period.

God, the plan seemed so weak now! It was perfectly reasonable last night, what the hell had changed? John was sweating, and his stomach churned. What if Simon didn’t buy it and found out instead that they were after him? What if he attacked Nell when she was really alone? What if…? _Oh, God, just leave it alone. Won’t do vomiting right now and having to go back home, will it?_ John breathed deeply once, twice, thrice. He checked the time again: still not eleven. He groaned in defeat.

At last, he got up and went back to the staffroom. Being in company surely would do wonders for his nerves. There wasn’t anybody from the Chemistry Department, sadly (they had all went home after the meeting, it seemed), but he was still able to distract himself for a while chatting with a couple of English teachers, and when they had to go he was again steady and cool head. He turned again to the tasks he had to grade, after that to the internet and then, at last, it was almost one o’clock. He prayed his visit was punctual; there had never been most at stake at punctuality that at that moment. John could feel the cold sweat in the palm of his hands while the other teachers started to appear in the staffroom, greeting each others, exchanging jokes, oblivious to his suffering.

“John!”

He jumped, startled, since he was watching intently the door and didn’t notice the hand on his shoulder.

“Jesus!” he gasped, on turning and seeing Molly. “That was a good start you gave me… I didn’t know you still were in the school.”

“I was at the Department, preparing lessons… Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, yes, sure. I’m…. ah, waiting for a parent.”

“Ouch”. Molly did a disgusted face. “Who’s the little offender this time?”

“No, none of that, in fact… It’s just… oh, I think he is here, excuse me.”

John got up in a hurry and reached his hand towards the man standing at the door, who was looking around as if looking for someone. John had no time to waste.

“Mr. Hurt?” he asked.

The man didn’t nod, but his gaze focused on John as if in acknowledgement. He didn’t look much like his son, his hair fairer and his complexion broader, but there was a certain family likeness that reminded John of Rick.

“I’m John Watson, sir. Really pleased to meet you”. _If you knew to what extent…_ “Would you mind to follow me? Rick must be waiting for us, and I bet he is hungry, so I won’t take much of your time.”

“Of course”, the other man agreed.

Molly waved from the door.

“See you on Monday, John! Have a nice weekend.”

John looked at her to wave her back and realised, horrified, that she was still wearing the while lab coat.

“Are you still going to work at the lab?”

The girl shrugged.

“Oh, just for half an hour or so. I wanted to test an experiment before taking the lads there on Tuesday.”

Mr. Hurt was staring at them with a blank face, so John tried to solve this quickly.

“Actually, I was going to talk with Mr. Hurt in the lab, Molly. Rick is surely already waiting for us there. Would you mind running your test next Monday? I can help you at lunch time, if you want; it will be quicker.”

Molly nipped her lower lip, but she smiled at once and started to take her lab coat off.

“Sure, no problem.”

_Thank goodness_ , John thought, sighing loudly, relieved. _That was close._ He took his coat and his bag and led the way out; Mr. Hurt followed him along the packed corridor and upstairs until the second landing. There he stopped, looking annoyed because of the many thumps he was receiving from the distracted students who were going down the stairs on their way home, unaware of the loose jolting of their backpacks and their effect on the passing people.

“Are you sure we wouldn’t be more comfortable in the hall? The other times I have come to an interview with a teacher we always went to a small office near the Head teacher’s one…” the man said.

“Well, yes, but I thought that, being Friday, and with everybody so agitated, you know, we would be quieter in the lab, actually…” John waffled.

Mr. Hurt sighed in clear annoyance, but kept going upstairs. John stopped him at the next fourth landing, the one that led to the second’s floor corridor, before the man crossed the landing door. John could now see Sherlock across the corridor, pretending to be talking on his mobile phone, pacing distractedly while the remaining students cleared the corridor. At the sight of John, Sherlock lowered his phone and slipped inside an empty classroom (the arts one, John recalled). _Good. Now I only have to wait for his signal._ He couldn’t believe everything was working according to their plan, it was too good to be true.

“Oh, sorry, do you mind?” John exclaimed suddenly, taking out his own phone and feigning to be answering a phone call. “Hello? Yes, it’s me… Excuse me, who is that?... Ah, yes, I was expecting your call.” John checked again Sherlock’s position. The boy turned to look at him from his hiding place and shook his head, so John extended his fake conversation. “Oh, I don’t think I can make it next Tuesday, I’m a bit behind on the schedule already… Could we meet next week instead?... Oh, too bad. When, then?”

Mr. Hurt was starting to fidget impatiently, and put his hand on the door, clearly intending to wait for him in the corridor. John jumped to interpose his body between the man and the door, his mind streaming to find an excuse, any excuse, and finding none.

“Mr. Watson”, Mr. Hurt said between gritted teeth. “I think I’ll wait in the lab with my son, if you don’t mind.”

“Wait! The door is locked; hold on a moment while I finish this call and I’ll go and open the lab”. Mr. Hurt didn’t seem very convinced. John begged again, cursing inwardly. “Please. This phone call is really important for me.”

The man hesitated a moment, and then nodded. John sighed into the phone and carried on his pretended phone call. Suddenly, the device buzzed. He looked at it, startled, and saw a new whatsapp sent by Rick.

‘ _Can I join you now? Is my dad with you?_ ’

He hurried to answer, checking Sherlock at the other side of the door, still in his hiding place, and forgot completely that he was supposed to be having a phone conversation.

‘ _Yes, please. 2 nd floor landing, right stairs’_

“Excuse me, can you tell me what is going on here?” Mr. Hurt asked, angry. “You didn’t even tell me why you wanted to talk about Rick, and as long as I know, he is getting good grades and never got into trouble. So if what you have to tell me is not important, perhaps we could set another meeting when you are more focused…”

“Dad!”

_Saved by the bell_ , John sighed. Rick was climbing the stairs two at a time, smiling nervously at his father. Mr. Hurt seemed to relax at the sight of his son, and he moved to go downstairs again.

“No, dad, wait!” Rick exclaimed. “Has Mr. Watson shown you our experiment yet?”

“What? No, nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, but you must! It’s the main reason he wanted you to come to the school, you know?”

Mr. Hurt smiled, obviously pleased.

“Ah, so this was what your teacher was so mysterious about! And I was thinking you had gotten into trouble!”

“Who, me?” Rick laughed.

John patted Rick’s back, joining in laughing. Then he turned to check again Sherlock’s position and his heart jumped: the boy was gesturing him as a madman! Time was up!

He looked at Mr. Hurt, his eyes wide with alarm but suddenly mute. He hadn’t pictured how he was going to do that! Fortunately, Rick was aware of the situation and grabbed his father’s arm without hesitation, pulling him quickly through the landing’s door.

“Come on, dad! No time to spare now!”

John ran along the corridor, trying to be as silent as possible, while Sherlock finally left his hideout and joined him in front of the lab door. They looked at each other and nodded, Rick and his father directly behind them, and then they pushed open the lab door with a loud ‘thoud!’

John knew what was going to see, and he thought he was ready to take that in, but he was wrong. When he saw that huge lump of a body thrown over the smaller frame of Nell… the girl’s body leaning over a lab desk, and that beast forcing her down with his big, strong, _rough_ hands… He felt like vomiting, right then, right there. But Sherlock had already jumped the other young man’s back, and Simon, who was already startled by the intrusion, struggled a bit to throw Sherlock off to the ground. John was ready to join the fun when he saw a shine in the corner of his eye.

“Sherlock! He’s got a knife!” he shouted.

_Too late, oh God, too late!_ , he thought, because Sherlock suddenly caught his stomach with a grimace of pain, but he didn’t let Simon go. John was already punching Simon on the jaw; the massive boy rolled over and fell down with Sherlock, releasing Nell, and kicked John from the ground, hard, making him stumble backwards. Sherlock elbowed the other boy’s neck and sat up, trying to push himself on top of Simon.

Suddenly some strong hands took charge of the situation, producing a pair of handcuffs that fitted perfectly around Simon’s wrists. The young man looked at them with incredulity painted on his face. John felt like laughing, but first helped Sherlock up and examined his injury: only superficial, fortunately. Although it would require some stitching.

Rick helped Nell to sit down. The girl seemed frightened but alright. Marcie appeared at the door, at last, and she quickly ran towards her friend, hugging her tightly, while Rick patted her back awkwardly.

“Well, I think I need some explanations… even when I can imagine more or less what’s happening here”, Mr. Hurt said, smiling at his son. “So this was your… _experiment_. Good on you, I’m very proud, Rick! And of you, too, of course, kids, but you let this go too far, Mr. Watson. The girl could have been hurt.”

“I’m OK”, Nell said with a thin voice.

“And the tall boy”, he said looking at Sherlock. “I still don’t know if you are brave or simply rash. You may be Sherlock, aren’t you?”

“You know-it-all arsehole!” Simon howled. “You are going to pay for this! You are dead, you hear me? Dead!”

John’s hand on Sherlock’s waist tightened, protective. He pushed Sherlock further from the criminal and let go of him, aware of the cop’s presence.

“OK, you lot”, the man said. “I give you one hour to go home and eat something, and then I want you at the Met local headquarters to make your statements. I’m going to read his rights to this piece of crap here, and then phone for a car and an ambulance.”

“I’m OK!” Nell repeated.

“Sure, but we want to take a pic of the current state of your neck, and I want them to take a look also at Sherlock’s stab. So please, be quiet and patient for a while, will you? Meanwhile, I’m sure Rick can go in search of the Head Teacher…”

Rick smiled and ran off, clearly happy for being useful. Mr. Hurt took his phone out and made a call. The four of them (the two girls, Sherlock and John) gathered together once more, Nell still trembling as a leaf, Marcie checking now Sherlock’s injury.

In the end, John’s nerve got sick of waiting and took pics of Sherlock’s and Nell wounds on his phone, proceeding then to clean and disinfect Sherlock’s one. He didn’t have stitching material there, but when he finished with the part he could do the ambulance was already there. He could feel the boy’s warm gaze on him the whole time, and had to try hard to not return it, feeling his cheeks already hot and surely blushed. The Head Teacher was only a few feet from them, discussing about security and insurances with Mr. Hurt. John was glad nobody was paying them any attention, and even gladder of going out of the building, at last, although it was to jump an ambulance and stand by Sherlock’s side while they stitched him. He was tough, that boy: he didn’t whimper or grumble once.

“You again… Why does that not surprise me?” a voice rumbled behind them.

“Sergeant Gregson”, John greeted. “I’m glad you have come”.

_And had seen first hand the brilliance of my brand new boyfriend_ , he thought. The man nodded, then frowned, and afterwards he opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and seemed lost. At last he sighed and just said:

“Let me tell you again, and I hope it’s the last time I have to warn you: teenagers must focus on studying, partying and dating nice chicks. Next time, when you feel the thrill of crime-solving is invading your mind… go to the cinema and watch a detective film! Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystalline”, John whispered.

The cop turned his menacing frown towards Sherlock, who frowned in turn. John elbowed him, and Sherlock sighed audibly and nodded. Sergeant Gregson seemed satisfied with that answer and let them go. Sherlock pouted.

“Can you believe it? We solve a case for him, and that’s his ‘thank you’!”

John smiled fondly. Sherlock looked adorable when disgruntled. He leaned towards him and whispered in his ear:

“Do you want to have lunch together and afterwards go to make our statements to the Yard?”

Sherlock’s eyes shone with delight.

“Best idea I’ve heard in ages, Doc!”

The two of them walked away in search of John’s car, trying not to touch each other and keep a good foot between them while walking. The Head Teacher, who was now talking with Sergeant Gregson, didn’t miss a beat of their way together across the parking lot, though.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long while... What can I say?
> 
> I lost motivation to write Johnlock after season 3, but I hate to leave things incomplete. Besides, Row keeps nagging me to finish this fic XDD
> 
> So here we are, let's see how this ends!

John’s steps had a strong swag on Monday morning, and he caught himself whistling by the school’s corridors. He tried not to show off, but it was being hard for him not to shout his happiness to every corner of Greenwood. The rapist was at last in jail, his job was fine, and Sherlock... God, Sherlock! They hadn’t seen each other during the weekend, and he had to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary was happening during the morning’s first period, allowing himself only some sneaking glances at the young man, but keeping them short and not too obvious. He couldn’t be happier when the lunch time bell rang.

He arrived first to the lab, but Sherlock came barely two minutes after. They smiled sheepishly to each other for a moment, and then they retreated to the back of the lab, where they couldn’t be seen from the corridor, and John pushed Sherlock until the boy was sitting on a high stool, grabbed his face between his hands and proceeded to snog him. Deep. Slow. Wet. John let his hands wander by his young man’s back, but Sherlock seemed shy at first, not knowing where to hold. Some minutes later, though, he obviously lost his inhibitions and John felt Sherlock’s hands grabbing two handfuls of his buttocks. He snorted, but put his boyfriend’s hands aside.

“Sorry, love, but we better keep our hands waist up”, he mumbled.

Sherlock’s reaction was pouting. _It shouldn’t look so charming on him_ , John thought, amused.

“You are worse than a grandma”, Sherlock complained, sighing.

He put his hands on John again, this time holding his hips, tightly, and grinded his lower body against John’s crotch. The teacher gasped, and caught Sherlock’s hands in his ones, putting a bit of space between them.

“Sherlock, don’t. Remember my conditions. I’m sorry, but they are not negotiable.”

The young man looked at him with sad eyes.

“But I have been thinking about you all the weekend, John.”

“Me too. But we can do other things together.” John released Sherlock’s hands and walked to his desk, where his bag was, half open on top of the table. “Look, I’ve brought pasta salad and turkey sandwiches. I thought we could eat something and afterwards you could use the lab to do whatever experiments you would like.”

Sherlock’s eyes light up as a Christmas tree.

“Really? I can do whatever I want? But you will stay here with me, right?”

John nodded, smiling. Sherlock came closer and kissed him lightly, his eyes already set on the chemicals cupboard.

“Perhaps”, John coughed, “you should go to the toilet first. You know, to take care of _that_.”

Sherlock looked puzzled for about thirty seconds, and then laughed.

“Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone!”

John assured him he would be there, and Sherlock ran towards the restroom. The teacher smiled fondly and started to unpack their meal, humming. Light footsteps at the door made him turn; _Not even Sherlock can be so fast_ , he thought. And of course it wasn’t Sherlock at the lab’s threshold, but Molly Hooper, who looked at him tilting her head and stroking her braid.

“John? You have come fast... Oh.” Something in John’s face obviously told her that he wasn’t expecting her there. “You... told me last Friday that you would help me to test an exercise, remember?”

“Oh! True, that!” John felt like a complete fool. Of course, how could he have forgotten? Too many things on his mind lately. “I’m glad I was already here.”

“I didn’t expect you would remember, honestly, John, so it’s alright if you have something else to do. After all that happened on Friday afternoon... You are quite the hero!”

Molly blushed slightly, and John laughed, shaking his head.

“Of course not! It was all Sherlock’s plan, and it was him who jumped over that guy... And Rick and the girls who volunteered, they were awesome.”

“Yeah, they were all very brave, as far as I have heard. But John, you could have told me, or told Mike, instead of working it out with students...”

John’s face fell and nodded.

“I know. The Head Teacher and that Scotland Yard Sergeant have already reprimanded me. The kids were enthusiastic, and I don’t think it would have worked if they hadn’t helped, but I shouldn’t have allowed it. It was far too dangerous.”

Molly’s gaze dropped to the ground.

“Well... I guess it’s difficult to deny anything to Sherlock”, she whispered. “He’s like a magnet sometimes; he pushes forward and the only thing we can do is run after him.”

John felt his mouth suddenly dry. He licked his lips, uneasy. Molly looked at him again, and her eyes had turned hard all of a sudden.

“So that’s what you are doing here at lunch time, John? Rewarding Sherlock with some lab time?”

John nodded. Not so far from the truth, anyway.

“But I will stay here with him and will make sure any accident happens”, he hurried to add. “And he will pay for all the chemicals he uses.”

Molly considered it for a moment and nodded, still very serious.

“That seems... fair.”

“I would be grateful if you don’t mention our deal to the Head Teacher or Mike, though. I will tell Mike myself; I’m aware he must know, as the Chemistry Head, but I prefer he catches up on the events by me.”

“Of course”, Molly nodded.

“Miss Hooper, so nice to see you here…”

Molly jumped at hearing Sherlock’s voice behind her. John hid a grin and pretended to be focused on the chemicals cabinet. But he spied with the corner of his eye as Sherlock looked Molly over and offered her a crooked and knowing smirk.

“H-hi, Sherlock. How are you doing?”

“Fine. John has promised me some extra exercises as a token of appreciation for helping him last Friday. I hope we are not bothering you.”

“No, no… Of course not. As long as John is here, it’s perfectly okay…”

John couldn’t believe that was the same awkward and socially misfit Sherlock he knew… He was staring at Molly with cockiness, standing inside her comfort zone and making the poor woman blush. _Time to intervene_ , John thought with an inner sigh.

“In fact, Sherlock, I’m helping Molly with an exercise first. Do you mind? You can work on something from the book. Do you have it here?”

Sherlock face lit up, dropping the act, and he was suddenly the same enthusiastic young man he knew so well.

“Ah, yes! I have it in my locket! I’ll be right back.”

And he rushed again to the corridor. John felt compelled to give Molly an apologetic smile, although he wasn’t responsible of Sherlock’s behaviour. The girl smiled him back, shrugging her narrow shoulders.

“You know how boys are…” she said. “Let’s do the exercise quickly, should we?”

John nodded and they got down to work.

 

* * *

 

As the days passed and they turned into weeks, John started to feel bold and confident again, without that pressure inside his guts every time the Head Teacher passed him down the aisle, or every time Mike paused his litany of jokes and seemed about to ask him something. He hadn’t commented further when John told him he was going to spend some lunch times with Sherlock at the lab; he had seemed dubious but agreed after a short silence, and that was all. John, though, knew perfectly well that Mike had its reservations about Sherlock, and he understood his old friend. But now that he knew Sherlock better, he was confident that everything would be alright: the young man only needed more incentives, and then he would work a hundred per cent focused and under control. If only John could tell Mike about it.

A new monotony had installed itself in his life, one that was comfortable and safe, without rapists or heart-stopping emotions. His hidden moments with Sherlock were enough for John’s comfort. Every time they kissed, closeted inside the teacher’s toilets or a storage room, his heart raced at the thought that they might be caught at any moment. But it was worth it, every moment with Sherlock at his side, being it while taking a walk or having lunch at the Chinese take away, or working at the lab, every moment was special and… yes, happy. His limp seemed reluctant to come back, besides, and for once Sherlock was grateful to be wrong in his deductions.

“But of course I hadn’t added myself to the equation when I deduced that, John”, he hurried to explain, to which John could only nod in acquiescence, grinning.

It was another Monday and John had already laid a take away lunch on top of his teacher’s desk at the lab. He took a look again at the time on his wrist watch. Sherlock was fifteen minutes late. He frowned. It was really uncommon for Sherlock to arrive late when chemicals were involved. In fact, he was usually waiting for John at the door when he arrived with the key, because John had to go back to the teacher’s room or the Chemistry Department to leave his books and the exercises to grade and retrieve his lunch. They only had an hour, so at that rate Sherlock wouldn’t have enough time left to do any experiment after eating. John sent him a quick text, and the answer took another couple of minutes… what was also unheard from Sherlock.

_“Coming.” SH_

John started to pitter-patter on the desk, nervous; he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands and was tempted to start eating his kebab without waiting for Sherlock, so anxious he was. When his pupil finally pushed the door to enter, he stood up to greet him, but froze on the spot when he glanced at Sherlock’s face.

“Oh, my… What the hell, Sherlock…”

There was a red, swollen area under Sherlock’s left eye, and his lower lip was split in half. The boy was holding a bundle of cloth against his wound, presumably containing ice cubes to avoid that it puffed further. He walked inside, closed the door behind him, and let himself drop in a chair, with a visible flinch. John came closer, sighing loudly, and took Sherlock’s chin, as delicately as he could. _That’s three or four direct punches, I would say,_ he thought while examining the bruised areas _, and that flinch surely means there’s more under his clothes._ John breathed deeply, trying to keep calm, although he could feel his rage starting to boil and go up inside his guts. _Stay put; you need a cool head right now._ The last thing he needed was frightening or offending Sherlock, and he already knew the boy tended to feel defensive about the attacks.

“Where else are you injured?”

His voice had gone out calm. Good.

Sherlock kept staring at the floor, stubbornly, avoiding his gaze.

“Don’t worry, John, it’s alright. It’s nothing.”

“Don’t give me that; I need to know!” John noticed he had raised his voice, a bit, so he tried to rewind and start again. “Look, Sherlock, this is getting out of hand. We should go to the hospital and then to the police and file a complaint.”

Sherlock raised his head to look at John in horror.

“No!”

“Then at least to the Head Teacher. This can’t keep happening, Sherlock. I’m sure the Head Teacher will expel these bullies if you give him the names…”

“I said no!”

Sherlock snapped up and picked up his backpack in a twirl, almost running back to the door. John grabbed his forearm just in time.

“Sorry, sorry! Please, stay, Sherlock”. The boy stopped, with his hand on the doorknob and his eyes downcast. “I just want to help.”

“I know.”

“I can’t stand aside and watch how they abuse you, Sherlock. I didn’t know they were still going for it.”

“It’s not as bad, usually. But yeah, they are always around.”

The young man allowed at last to be turned to face John, and John buried himself on his boyfriend’s chest, nuzzling the side of his neck and sighing inwardly.

“I can only give them detention”, he whispered against Sherlock’s shoulder.

The boy chuckled without humour.

“As if. They are already punished with detentions from here to the end of the term. They don’t mind anymore.”

“That’s why I asked you to go to the Head Teacher”. John slipped from Sherlock’s embrace and looked him in the eye, very serious. “Let’s try for expulsion. That way you won’t have to face them during the rest of your time in this school.”

Sherlock started to bite his lower lip, found the cut there and refrained in time to make it worse. He let go of John completely and walked towards the teacher’s desk, where their lunch was.

“What’s on your mind, Sherlock? I can’t guess if you don’t tell me.”

He watched the teen, who was grabbing one of the kebabs and sitting at a table to eat it. He did the same, sitting in front of him, but kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. At last the student met his gaze and sighed in annoyance.

“Alright, John, if you insist… I’m not a hundred per cent sure that Adrian and his clique aren’t aware of our relationship. I would say that they have their suspicions, at the least.”

John muffled a gasp, mortified. Well, what was he expecting? People weren’t blind, and Sherlock and he spent a lot of time together in Greenwood. People like Adrian didn’t have the need of seeing them kissing to guess what was going on. And once gossip started to run, there would be nothing they could do to stop the rumours, and the consequences. John closed his eyes, feeling his stomach churn.

“So that leaves the Head Teacher out of the table, I think”, Sherlock concluded.

They resumed their eating, feeling miserable. But after a few heartbeats, John had an idea.

“Sherlock”.

“Hmm?” The teen gave him a puzzled look, stopping to munch.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll be cutting your lab time a bit”. Before Sherlock started to complain, John raised his hand and grinned, with an amused glint in his eyes. “Let’s say you only get two lunch times a week. Monday and Thursday, alright?”

Sherlock didn’t look very happy.

“So what are you doing tomorrow, then?” he asked with a pout.

“What are _we_ doing, you should say… You will see. Meet me tomorrow at the gym. Same hour. And, ehem, perhaps you would like to wear something more comfortable, you know?”

“I don’t want to do sport”, Sherlock hissed.

“It won’t be _sport_. Now finish your meal quickly, it’s almost time to go back to class.”

As if in queue, the bell chimed, and Sherlock groaned loudly, eliciting a chuckle from John.

But the next day Sherlock was indeed waiting for him, leaning on the door of the gym, with a not-amused-at-all face. He was wearing the same style of clothing as always, though, but it was better than nothing: John had almost expected that he would skip their meeting.

John rewarded his young man with some minutes of heated kisses as soon as the door was locked from the inside, and in a moment Sherlock was relaxed and boneless in his arms. But. They had work to do.

“Alright, Sherlock… Stop it, Sherlock! I can’t concentrate if you keep kissing me.”

“That’s perfect”. Sherlock was latched to his neck, peppering soft kisses that felt too good for John’s taste at that very moment.

“No, it’s not! Right. Fine.” Having at last a foot distance between them, John felt again in control of himself. “Well, you are aware of the fact that, apart from being a doctor, I have also been in the army.”

“Aye, Captain Watson”, Sherlock grinned.

John smiled back at him. He had unconsciously taken a military posture, he noticed. Well, it couldn’t be helped; some things were engraved in his nature, and would be forever.

“That means I have an army training… that will come very handy for our current problem.”

“Are you going to train me, Doc?” Sherlock’s grin widened.

“A bit of self-defence is useful to everybody… and yes, it will give you the confidence you need right now. If you are able to stop those bullies on your own, without depending on me or on anybody else…”

Sherlock’s eyes lit, and he became more serious and alert, straightening up to his full height.

“Yes”, he said, and there wasn’t a hint of amusement or doubt in his voice. “Yes. Train me, Captain.”

Lunch time was a very short length of time, John reflected afterwards. But still they ended sweated and heated up, and when the bell rang Sherlock ate his sandwich almost without chewing it and ran to the toilet to clean himself a bit. John watched him go with a fond feeling heating also his insides, and then shook his head, snapping out of his reverie, and picked up his stuff. Three hours a week. Perhaps in a couple of months he would be able to teach Sherlock at least the basics… He might be able to stand his ground against his bullies even earlier, if he was confident enough. And he was certainly strong, and tall, and had those big hands… John’s smile fell and kept cleaning up the gym with a frown.

* * *

 

There were other things worrying him, of course. Small things. Like the way Sherlock nagged him every weekend.

_“John. There’s a fantastic concert at St Paul this evening. How do you feel about Gregorian chant? SH”_

John sighed and glanced at the hour: it was seven a.m. He buried his face on his pillow again. It was Saturday, for God’s sake… Was it wrong to want to sleep a couple of hours more in the weekends?

His phone chimed again.

_“It’s St Michel's Benedictines. From France. Best Gregorian chant in the world, John! SH”_

And again.

_“But it’s ok, if you are not fond of Gregorian, we can do another thing. Whatever you want. SH”_

_“Except football. I hate football, sorry.”_

John chuckled and finally whatsapped back.

“ _You forgot to add your ‘SH’_ ”

_“John! Good morning! SH”_

The teacher shook his head, amused, and got ready for at least an hour of chatting with Sherlock.

Chatting on whatsapp was fine, but he didn’t meet Sherlock in the weekends, no matter how much the teen insisted. He was aware that his young boyfriend couldn’t understand why, but for him it was a must. Of course he was eager to see Sherlock also in the weekends, but he wouldn’t, shouldn’t give in. He was risking a lot spending time with him in Greenwood, and in fact he was quite sure he wasn’t going to be renewed for another year at the school, even without any gossip about Sherlock and him. But Greenwood was a small fish in the great sea of London. A shudder ran up his spine at the mere thought of meeting his faculty or army friends while going on a date with Sherlock in Central London. What would Bill say about him? Or his flatmates? Or even Mike, old patient, easy-going and wide-minded Mike? He would surely freak out if he knew of their relationship.

So no, thank you. John wasn’t ready at all to come to terms with the fact that he was dating a seventeen year old pupil. Not in public, at least.

* * *

 

He had an hour of school availability the next Monday, during the third period. It was usually a rather boring hour, if any of the teachers were ill, so he lingered at the teacher’s room door with a cup of tea until everybody had run to theirs classrooms. There was only a French teacher and him in availability, so the room was almost deserted. He cleared a patch on the cluttered huge table and sat with his tasks to grade and his cup.

A light tap on the door made him turn his head. He expected a student, perhaps in need of chalk or toilet paper, but the person at the door was a total stranger, and an adult. Well, a young adult at least.

The man was tall and with a slim built, but at the same time out of shape, as if he hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in his life. He was in his twenties, but again there was a slight contradiction between the age his face declared and the age his choice of outfit alleged. He was dressed in a three-pieces suit in sober colours, with a tie of course, and he had such a grown-up and serious air around him that John wouldn’t have been shocked if the young man was wearing a bowtie.

The visitor smiled at seeing John and stepped in. Something in that smiled reminded John of an alligator, but he smiled back as kindly as he could.

“Good morning, Mr. Watson. My name is Mycroft Holmes”, the man said, offering a hand to shake. John reached out and took it, too shocked to speak. “May I sit down here, or would you prefer if we were to talk to a more private place? The character of the things I would like to discuss with you might have a private turn…”

He looked askance to the French teacher, who was pretending to be minding her own business, but who was quite obviously trying not to miss a word. John cleared his throat and stood up, feeling incredibly awkward.

“Right. Of course. If you are so kind to follow me, we can use one of the interview rooms we have especially for these situations.”

The man narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, really? I wasn’t aware these… _situations_ … were so frequent.”

John gulped and led the way out the teacher’s room, glad to loose sight of those cold eyes for a moment. _I am fucked,_ he thought _. Completely and thoroughly fucked_.

He guided Mycroft Holmes to one of the two small rooms attached to the Head Teacher’s office, and thanked god for finding the office empty, so he wouldn’t need to give explanations. The interview room was plain: a small desk, three chairs and a dull picture on the wall, that was all. Obviously, the Head Teacher didn’t want any distraction at sight when he explained to the parents why their children had been given detention, which was the most common use of those rooms. Mycroft Holmes looked around in disgust before sitting down on the chair John signalled for him to use.

“I get you are Sherlock’s older brother”. John tried to sound friendly, but he couldn’t avoid the nervousness that was creeping through his limbs.

“And”, the man said and stopped during a long pause, leaning back in his chair and watching John with an almost amused look. Like a bird of prey who had just spotted a mouse on a wheat field. “You are the teacher who is fucking my _baby_ brother.”

He had managed to highlight ‘ _baby’_ without any inflexion of his voice or a raised brow. John gulped and hurried to try to explain himself.

“That’s not what is happening here. What... What has Sherlock told you, pray?”

The man frowned and his amusement turned into obvious annoyance.

“He hasn’t told me anything. Is not like Sherlock to say anything at all about what’s on his mind or any problems he might have. It’s been like that for some years. But I have just come back from Oxford for a short break, and the last thing I was expecting to find was my younger brother mopping around the corners like a love-struck puppy. As he didn’t give any explanations and my parents seem to be oblivious about anything that has to do with Sherlock, I took the liberty of borrowing his phone and take a look at his recent messages…”

John straightened up in his uncomfortable chair, grounding his feet also metaphorically.

“Well, if you had asked Sherlock directly, he would have told you, perhaps, the rules of our relationship. Which, for your information, don’t include any kind of physical intimacy.”

“Sure… I will take your word on it…” Mycroft added with a lopsided smirk.

“I swear! I’m… I’m not taking advantage of him, I would never do that. I… I care for him. A lot. And I only want to help him and to make him happy.”

“Then you are doing a poor job of it, Mr. Watson… What I saw this last weekend wasn’t what I would call a happy teenager.”

John avoided his stern eyes and studied his own hands on the desk.

“He is young… and is of course impatient, and would like the relationship to go further and faster. But I swear to you, it won’t happen.”

The man huffed.

“You know what will happen if my parents or the Head Teacher hear of this… _relationship_ of yours, do you?” He managed again to stress the word ‘ _relationship_ ’ without any effort, as if it was a word that filled him up with disgust. John nodded. “Then, you know perfectly well what you must do. Stop this nonsense at once and break up this stupid relationship as soon as possible.”

John smiled slowly, feeling his whole body filling with sadness even before starting to speak.

“That won’t be necessary.”

  

 


	8. Chapter 8

The Easter holidays soon came and went. John hadn’t told Sherlock about his brother visiting him, but he was still mulling over the conversation, and recently he had started to feel anxiety in an almost physical way, as if uncountable ants strolled up and down his torso and his legs, without any real hassle, just being there, but the feeling was driving him slowly crazy. At school, he was under the impression that everybody had their eyes on him, and that every gossip had him and Sherlock as the centre of the talk. Hence he couldn’t be more glad when the two weeks break arrived.

Of course every moment spent with Sherlock was worth it. He had progressed a lot with the self-defence practical lessons in the gym, and now he could throw John easily or pin him down on the floor with no effort. For sheer luck, it seemed that Adrian’s clique had been too busy, or too watched over by the teachers, to approach Sherlock during that period of time, for which John was grateful, since it had given Sherlock time to get ready to face them. John was sure that, the next time they felt the need to show off their physical superiority as a group, his young man would stand his ground and perhaps he would even give them a hard time.

 _Sherlock_. John sighed and messed his already greyish short hair. The thought of his young boyfriend always elicited the same reaction from him, a great deal of sighing and starting to fiddle uncomfortably on his chair.

He already knew the boy was a tease, but hell! That had escalated quickly. One look at those bright greenish eyes, and he was lost. Every day it was more and more difficult to control himself and stop before things got too heated, and Sherlock was demanding and petulant and wouldn’t be satisfied with just a couple of kisses. John knew things will end being like this, of course he knew, and it made him feel more sad than sexually frustrated. He decided taking a little break from seeing Sherlock every day was also welcomed.

The teen was infuriated when John told him he was going to spend his holidays with some army friends: they were going to Scotland to visit a member of the old troop, Nick with his only leg, and then they were going camping near a lake. Sherlock pressed his lips together until they were only a white line. They were in the middle of the crowded corridor, so he refrained to say anything and simply started to walk away fast, putting distance between John and himself with his long strides. John watched him go feeling a sharp pain in his chest.

They started the holidays writing each other in a light mood, though, to John’s relief. By day four, he missed Sherlock so much that he was tempted to ask him to meet face to face. But in the end, he contented himself just phoning him. Hearing his voice on the phone was calming at first, he could just lie down on his bed, close his eyes and imagine Sherlock right there, sitting with him on his bed and looking at him with that enthusiastic gleam he had when he started to talk about chemistry, or crimes. After a while, the amount of innuendos ruined the amusing mood, and John, already half hard, had to hang up before Sherlock suggested having phone sex. _This boy will be my ruin_ , he thought as soon as he was off the phone, dipping his hand inside his underwear with Sherlock’s slender neck on his mind.

By the second week of holidays, though, the whassapp messages started to be scarcer, to John’s concern. Although being in the countryside, he insisted on texting Sherlock every time they stopped to rest (to his friends’ amusement, who had started to tease him until he confessed he was “dating a very special person”). But Sherlock’s answers started to take longer every time, and instead of a steady conversation, they were having a total of three messages a day, separated by hours. He didn’t pick up his phone calls, either, and if John wouldn’t have been in the middle of Scotland that last week, he would have given up in his resolution and would have run to Sherlock’s house at once, so worried he was by his change of behaviour.

When he came back to London, though, he hesitated. He felt calmer and more right on his mind being in his city, and he tried to focus on his resolve: he wasn’t going to see Sherlock until the next Monday, at school. It was only a weekend away. He sure could survive two days more without seeing his boyfriend, right? Besides, this break was a test of sorts for them, or at least he had planned it as one. It wouldn’t be a good idea to stop it now.

The phone call made him jump. _Sherlock!_ , he thought, running up the stairs to retrieve his mobile before the ringtone stopped. The number on the screen wasn’t Sherlock’s though, but an unknown one. Swallowing down his disappointment, John answered, trying to calm down his laboured breath.

“Yes?”

“John Watson? Doctor John Watson?”

The voice at the phone was raspy and completely unknown to John. At the other side of the line there was a great deal of noise, especially voices, like if they were calling from a busy office. John’s heart missed a beat when he recognised one of the voices in the background. Sherlock!

“Yes, it’s me! Who’s that?”

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade from New Scotland Yard. I am under the impression that you are well acquaintances with a young man called Sherlock Holmes…”

“Indeed I am. What has he done?”

The raspy voice chuckled.

“Why don’t you come over here and I start to give you a list?”

* * *

 

And, of course, John found himself stepping in a small office inside the New Scotland Yard premises less than half an hour later.

The office had glass and metal walls, so once inside it seemed like if they were still in the middle of the big and airy common office, and the door remained open, so it was still as noisy and lacking in privacy… But once he saw Sherlock sitting down at one of the two guest chairs, pouting and staring stubbornly at the wall, John couldn’t give a damn about their surroundings, so concerned he was.

“Sherlock! Are you alright?” he asked at once.

The man at the other side of the desk cleared his throat to attract his attention. John met his eyes with an apologetic look, and sat down at the empty chair next to Sherlock when the man prompted it with a head gesture. The cop (D.I. Lestrade, as his desk plate and his voice on the phone stated) was a man on his late forties, tan and grey-haired, with an active and good-natured air around him, highlighted by the amused grin with which he was watching them.

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor Watson! You know, I was really curious, after hearing so much about you…”

John’s head turned on its own to look at Sherlock, who in turn kept staring at the wall and just huffed.

“Thank you, I wished I could say the same…” John said, feeling clueless and slightly awkward. “Ah… Mind to tell me why I am here?”

The Detective smirk grew wider as he leaned back on his chair. _At least one of us is having fun_ , John thought with a grudge.

“I don’t know if you are aware, Doctor Watson, of the fact that this clever young man here, Sherlock Holmes, has been nosing into our crime scenes for some months now… He started sending me emails with his thoughts about some crimes that had made their way into the press; that was a bit after Christmas, I think?”

“It was almost February”, Sherlock mumbled, still refusing to look even remotely at them.

“Thanks for your input. February, then. Soon followed the whatsapp messages; to this day I still ignore how the hell he managed to get my personal number, and he refuses to tell me… I can’t deny he is as resourceful as stubborn…” John turned to study Sherlock’s profile again. The teenager insisted on his petulant behaviour, but John knew him better. Along with his haughty body language, he could also see the way Sherlock’s shoulders trembled and how he tried to hide whenever he gulped. “It started to feel like being stalked, to be honest. But his observations were clever, and when last week he approached me at a crime scene to introduce himself, I was thoroughly shocked to find out he was an underage!” The Detective chuckled as if found this whole mess really funny. “Well, he sneaked away after that, but today he hasn’t been as lucky. Eh, Sherlock?” The boy shrugged, stubbornly silent. Lestrade sighed and turned serious, straightening in his chair to look John in the eye. “So this is what we have here: a schoolboy who is sneaking out of home at night, without his parents’ knowledge or consent, to stalk a Scotland Yard Detective; and we might add trespassing and obstruction of a police investigation to the charges we could press on him.”

Sherlock’s head shot up, with a betrayal look so honest on his features that John might have laughed at in other circumstances. He managed to stay serious, though, and kept watching the interaction.

“I was helping with the cases, not obstructing!” Sherlock whispered with anger.

Lestrade intertwined his hands, offering Sherlock a polite smile that felt half faked and half a winning grin.

“Messing with the crime scenes is considered obstruction, Sherlock, you surely know that”. The man sighed again and leaned back. “God knows you know a lot by now. So don’t ever try to pull an ‘ _I didn’t know, I am too young_ ’ excuse, because I’ll know that’s bullshit”.

“But I have helped you! You would never have found that hairpin if I hadn’t directed you to it. And you _believed_ the feeble excuse of that Wallace man before I took it apart!”

Lestrade frowned and raised a hand to stop Sherlock’s tirade. John, in turn, was speechless. When had all of that happened? Since late January, they have said… That meant when Sherlock and he had been already dating… but the boy _never_ said a thing. They were so many implications that John didn’t even know where to start worrying.

“Enough, Sherlock…” the cop cut him, and then he addressed John again. “You see how thing are? What I am supposed to do with him?”

John shook his head. He wanted to say that he was only his teacher, but his voice wouldn’t come out.

“You are going to keep me around and let me help, of course”, Sherlock added, uninvited. “Half your Department is made up of idiots, and some of them are even _useless_ idiots who can’t do much apart from preparing coffee and fill in reports.”

“ _Shut. Up._ I’m talking to Doctor Watson here. Unless you prefer I summon your parents.” Sherlock made a show of closing his mouth, folding his arms. “Right. Just as I thought. Doctor Watson, look: Sherlock refuses to phone his parents and insists the only adult he would allow as his guardian for this case is his Chemistry teacher. You. He seems to be very fond of your teachings, both inside and outside the classroom.” John gulped, trying to keep a straight face. _What the hell have you tell him, Sherlock?_ , he wondered. “It seems you are teaching him self-defence as well; good job! Although I really hope those teachings are put to good use only against your usual bullies at school, and not out there trying to fight real criminals… Because that’s where you enter, Doctor Watson. Are you willing to be responsible for Sherlock’s acts while he collaborates with Scotland Yard? He says you will be in for it. If that’s the case, and nothing, absolutely nothing is said out of this office, I will turn a blind eye on Sherlock if he wants to come to take a look at our crime scenes. I won’t even tell his parents. But. I need to know there’s an adult taking good care of him and facing the possible consequences.”

“Do I have to go with him to the crime scenes?”

The Detective nodded.

“It would be advisable. I can’t let an underage saunter by Scotland Yard on his own, you know. Still less come running at night where a crime has just been committed.”

John watched Sherlock with the corner of his eye. The boy was staring at him with a face full of undisguised hope. He was tempted to smile, but licked his lips instead, trying to look thoughtful.

“I will.”

“You are in?” Sherlock exclaimed. “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you, Lestrade? It has to be him, or nobody!”

“It’s D.I. Lestrade for you, boy”, the Detective mumbled, annoyed. “Alright. This is all completely unofficial, of course. If something unexpected happens… I don’t know any of you, I’ll just do the official thing to do, calling his parents and stuff.”

“That won’t be necessary, I swear”, Sherlock said at once.

“You keep an eye on him, then. And I mean it; this kid runs away really fast.”

John nodded and shook Lestrade’s hand. It seemed the interview had finished, so he stood up and Sherlock did the same. The teenager had a great smile on his face and his petulant manners of a while ago had completely vanished. _Oh, this little bastard…_ , John sighed while walking out of the office and the building, with Sherlock walking briskly at his side.

“So”, he started to say once they were at the street.

“So”, Sherlock replied, grinning.

“That’s what you were doing these two weeks, and that’s why you were too busy to answer my messages or my phone calls.”

The boy didn’t say anything, and looked away. John stopped walking after a few steps, slightly annoyed, and when Sherlock noticed stopped as well, turning to look at him briefly. Glancing around, Sherlock suggested:

“There’s a Starbucks over there. We can sit down and talk, if you want. That is, if you are not too scared that someone see the two of us together.”

“I’ve just accepted to be seen with you in front of the police, remember?” John said with a smirk, and headed for the coffee shop door.

They ordered and waited for their coffees in silence, and then they chose a table at the end of the shop, hidden from the shop front. As soon as they were sat down, Sherlock started to talk.

“You are not mad because I didn’t tell you about me helping Lestrade?”

 _Stalking would be a better word_ , John thought, chuckling.

“No, I’m not. I’m even a bit proud of you. No, scratch that: I’m a big deal proud of you”. Sherlock beamed at these words. “But I’m also awfully worried. Sherlock, you are too young to go out at night on your own!”

Sherlock huffed and made a dismissing gesture.

“Oh, come on, John… I’m not a kid. I tell my mother I’m going to a friend’s house, or to a disco, and that’s fine for her. If I’m grown up enough to go to a disco, how am I too young to go to examine crime scenes at night?”

“That’s… different. Your mother thinks you are going to a disco with other friends of your age… and doing things according to your age. I bet she would be horrified if she knew what you actually do!”

Sherlock leaned in, bumping his knees with John’s under the narrow table.

“But you won’t tell her.”

“I won’t. Because from now on, you will call me every time you go to a crime scene, or to Scotland Yard.”

The teen leaned back again, perching his arm around the back of his chair.

“Yay. It was not what I intended for our dates, but it will certainly be perfect.”

John laughed.

“Oh, shut up!” he exclaimed, grinning.

Sherlock smiled back, but soon a shadow passed through his features.

“I’m sorry that I’m forcing myself on you”, he muttered softly. “That’s not how I wanted our relationship to progress.”

John’s gaze softened and, after a quick glance around them and checking that the few customers were busy and not looking at them, he put his hand on top of Sherlock’s and ran a thumb over his knuckles.

“You are not forcing yourself on me, don’t think like that. It’s okay.”

Sherlock studied their linked hands for a moment, and then he dropped his hand to his knee with a downcast look.

“But you are still ashamed to be seen with me”, he whispered.

John gasped, and fought the sudden need to hold Sherlock’s shoulders and force him to look at his eyes.

“That’s not what it is! Please, Sherlock, you can’t believe that!”

The boy raised his face again, and stared at John with a sudden coldness.

“What’s it, if not that, John? I understand that we need to be discreet at Greenwood, but you don’t want to see me out of the school. This is only the second time I’ve got to have coffee with you out of the canteen! I’m not asking to hold hands or kiss in public, I’m not that stupid, but not even wanting to have lunch together or come to my house?”

“I can’t go to your house, Sherlock! Your brother already knows, he came to see me at the school; I can’t afford that your parents also…”

Sherlock cut him raising his hand.

“What? Mycroft? Mycroft came to see you? Why the hell you are telling me this only now? When did it happen?”

“Ah… A month ago, maybe? I… I didn’t want to worry you.”

The boy frowned and studied the contents of his empty mug.

“And what exactly did you talk about? I want the exact words, if possible.”

Sherlock’s voice was icy, his anger barely contained. John wetted his lips, concerned. He knew Sherlock’s relationship with his brother was slightly strained, but it seemed that he loathed Mycroft’s intervention still more than John had anticipated.

“He asked me to break up with you and threatened to tell your parents about it if I didn’t.”

“And you answered…?”

John gulped. Sherlock was still avoiding his eyes, for what John was glad. He didn’t think he could face his piercing gaze at that moment.

“I told him that wouldn’t be necessary. Because I was sure you would break up with me as soon as the school is over.”

The teenager raised his face at hearing that, shocked, and this time it was John who stared at the table with intent.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, with a trembling voice. “Why did you tell him that? Do you really believe it?”

“I do.”

“I repeat: why?”

Sherlock’s voice was harsh and cold, and John felt a lump in his throat. He really didn’t want to have that conversation, but perhaps it was for the best to have it as soon as possible and get rid of the issue.

“Sherlock… you are young, gorgeous and a genius. I don’t have anything to offer to you outside the school. In a bunch of months, you are starting college and will make new friends and will have new experiences… as it should be. I would only weight you down.”

The boy fisted his hands. John ventured a look in his direction. Sherlock was looking at him, but he doubted the teen was really seeing him. His gaze seemed far away.

“That’s what you really think, John?”

The doctor nodded.

“Then I was wrong about you. I thought you knew me better than that.”

And without a further word, Sherlock stood up and walked away. John almost called his name, but in the end he just closed his hands and stayed there, not even turning to watch him leave the shop. _Sherlock…_ he called in his mind _. But it’s better this way, isn’t it? Isn’t it better?_


	9. Chapter 9

The next day was a Saturday, and John’s great plans for the afternoon included watching _Pointless Celebrities_ with his only remaining flatmate, and perhaps a film later on. Instead, a phone call got him getting dressed and going out in a snap.

“John. I know perhaps you are not in good terms with me right now, but Lestrade has just phoned me…”, Sherlock had said, with voice more enthusiastic than hesitant.

John smiled and shook his head. _This guy…_

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I told him I would go with you whenever it was necessary, so just tell me your address and I’ll pick you up.”

“Ah… In fact I’m already half way there… I’m texting you the crime scene’s address.”

And he hung up, just like that. The message with the address chirped when John was already putting his trousers on.

It took John around twenty minutes to arrive; it was rather near, since John’s flat was in Lambeth and the crime had taken place in Brixton, so in the same side of the river. During the short underground trip, John mulled over Sherlock’s words. ‘ _Not in good terms with Sherlock’_ , he had said. Wasn’t it the other way around? _I’m not mad at him or anything_ , John thought, sighing. _It was expectable that he reacted like that, sure. But it wouldn’t have been honest on my part to pretend I was planning on a future with him. Or would it? Hell, I don’t know anymore!_

He didn’t know, either, what kind of greeting would Sherlock give him right then, if he would be glad to see him or not, but it turned out that he didn’t need to fret that much. Because as soon as he arrived to the location, surrounded by yellow tape, an ambulance and three police cars, he found Sherlock already there, deep in heated conversation with Lestrade. He approached them, still on the outer side of the police tape, and when Lestrade saw him Sherlock noticed his presence and turned towards him.

“Ah, John, here you are at last! Please tell Lestrade I am mature enough to see the corpse.”

John opened his mouth, slightly shocked, but nothing came out.

“Sherlock…” the D.I. said, gritting his teeth and looking around awkwardly. “I’m breaking a lot of rules by having you here. I’m not comfortable allowing you to fulfil your… morbid curiosity examining a dead man.”

“It’s not ‘ _morbid_ ’! How I am to get a whole picture of the crime if I am not able to see the body?”

Sherlock grew frustrated by the moment. In the end John crossed under the tape to intervene. A dark-skinned woman in a blue overall came closer at once, frowning, but Lestrade waved her and told her it was alright. The woman glanced at Sherlock and John with suspicion, but said nothing and soon turned away and came back to her work.

“D.I. Lestrade, I am an army doctor, apart from Sherlock’s teacher”, John said, slightly uncertain. “Can I take a look at the body and assess if it’s alright for Sherlock to see it?”

Lestrade made a show of sighing in defeat and gestured John to go on. John approached the corpse, covered in a black fabric, and retired the cover with care, trying not to touch anything. He noticed a group of onlookers gasping at the view, but Lestrade’s voice asking them to circulate arrived to John’s ears in a moment. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes from the dead man’s body. It had been a couple of years since the last time he had seen someone dead, and although a part of him obviously found the sight ghastly, he couldn’t deny that another part of him found it oddly fascinating. Thrilling. Even if this time he wasn’t in front of an autopsy table, his mind was already running over the details of the wounds. _Stab wound between the third and the fourth ribs. Another one a little lower, most certainly piercing the liver. That one could be the cause of the death._

He soon felt, more than saw, Sherlock’s presence at his side. He didn’t say anything, but after a moment he crouched as well and started murmuring.

“Around twenty-five years old, male. According to his visible piercings, haircut and style of clothing, I would say he was a petty criminal or at least he was acquaintance with some of them. He didn’t live with his family; perhaps he lived on his own or with a casual partner. Used to physical work, but not by hobby. Boxes! He worked carrying heavy boxes”. John turned to look at him in awe, but he didn’t dare to say anything that could break Sherlock’s focus. “He met with someone here, in this back street. At lunch time, perhaps; the street must be deserted at that time”. He raised his eyes to look at John. The doctor checked the time of the death according the degree of rigidity of the body and nodded. Sherlock went on, reassured. “The murderer is a man, around his age. He lives or works in the neighbourhood, but not exactly here. He knew the street and what time it would be fine to meet someone and stab him in the middle of the day, without it being very noticeable at once, allowing him to walk away from the crime scene and get mixed with the crowds before someone called the police”.

Lestrade came closer, crouching by their side, and bite his lower lip, thoughtful.

“You are making it up, Sherlock. There’s no way we can check all of that”.

“I’m _not_ making it up!” the boy lashed out. “I’m _observing_! That’s what I do, and that’s what you policemen are supposed to do, too! So if you are not going to do your job, at least shut up and let me do it for you!”

John flinched. The Detective stood up, red with anger, and John pulled Sherlock’s sleeve before the man exploded.

“Out!” Lestrade shouted. “I’ve had enough of you for today, brat. Get out of here right now.”

He turned and walked away, fuming.

“Text me if you find something else!” Sherlock called out while John dragged him to the other side of the yellow tape.

They walked in silence for a minute, stepping away from the passer-byes and the police cars, and when they were almost turning around the corner, Sherlock asked:

“Well, that was interesting. What do you think?”

John huffed.

“What do I think? I think, for once, that you have a problem knowing when you should close your mouth or talk with restraint, that’s for sure.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to scoff.

“Oh, that… Not important. The crime, John! What do you think about the crime?”

“What would I know?” John’s sighed. He looked back at Sherlock’s face, who was staring at him, eager. “Okay, you are really enjoying playing detectives…”

“I’m not playing! This is a real crime, and a criminal is out there, really close, and he’s waiting to be chased and arrested.”

“And here I thought I had won you for a Chemistry major…” John smiled, shaking his head.

But Sherlock was intent in tracking down the murderer, and he pulled John to the nearest tube station, so the only option left to him was following Sherlock and watch him type furiously on his phone once in the carriage.

“Where are we going?” he asked, only to be shushed by Sherlock.

They went out only a stop away, and John almost had to run to keep up with the long strides of the boy. He cursed.

“Sherlock! Mind to tell me where are we going, or what are we looking for?”

“But you already know that, John! We are looking for the murderer!”

John stopped in the middle of the street and reached for Sherlock’s wrist. The young man turned to look at him, clearly annoyed.

“I’m not taking a step further until you give me some explanations”, John stated, his face as stern as he could make it.

The boy sighed, impatient, but he gave in.

“I’ll try to explain… This is so frustrating, John… At least keep on walking, would you?” John nodded and they started to walk again, slower than before. The teacher almost expected that Sherlock started to run in any given moment, leaving him behind. “Ok… We are searching for a petty criminal of the area, someone young, hence one of the weak links of a solid criminal chain, I would say. Is this clear so far?” John nodded again. He couldn’t guess how Sherlock could be so convinced, just by seeing the body, but he relied on Sherlock’s observation skills, so perhaps he was right after all. It didn’t seem far fetched, to be honest. “Alright. So we just need to find a pub where the people like him meet in the evening.”

“Do you expect those places to be advertised in the press or something?” John grinned.

“Almost. It only took me a short search in Google maps to find the most promising one. We are going there to take a look at the faces and try to gather some gossip.”

John laughed and shook his head again.

“What happens?” Sherlock asked, uncertain for the first time in the evening. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

“No, it’s not that… It’s just… you are amazing, Sherlock.”

The boy smiled warmly at him and kept walking.

“It’s here.”

The pub Sherlock pointed at didn’t look different to others in the area to John, but once he crossed the door he couldn’t deny the atmosphere was a tad different. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but suddenly he was ready to trust in Sherlock’s theory and in the fact that a murderer was one of the regulars of that pub. When they reached the bar counter he felt a number of eyes boring into them. Unwelcoming eyes, he would add.

“Is this lad eighteen?” the bartender asked in a rasp voice, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

“Of course.” Sherlock feigned offense and took out his wallet. “Do you want to see my ID?”

“Nah, keep that. So?”

“A beer for me, and a coke for him”, John ordered. As soon as the man was at the other side of the counter, he hissed to Sherlock: “Do you have a fake ID? How come?”

The boy shrugged.

“I thought it might come handy. It’s housemade, relax. It’s not like I paid someone to get a fake ID. But I think I made a good work of it. In fact, I would have been glad to test it on this bartender and see if it worked.”

John tried to keep a straight face when he took his beer and thanked the sturdy man. For the first time in their association, the teacher started to think that hanging out with Sherlock could be dangerous for his health.

“Do I dare to ask what you are going to do now?” he sighed.

“It’s the first time I do something like this… I guess we should try to blend, or everybody will close their mouth when we are around.”

John gave a squinted look at Sherlock. Did he want to blend with that kind of people wearing his usual black silk shirt and elegant jacket? _Good luck with that._

“Sherlock, you are lucky I’m here…” John said at last. “Consider a change of outfit next time you wish to blend with other people.”

Sherlock looked surprised, but he masked it well under a tiny smile when John started to ask the bartender about the outcome of the last days’ football matches, given that he had been camping with friends and couldn’t see the matches on the telly. After a while, a small crowd was cranked on the counter, commenting the best moments of that week’s football in loud voices. Sherlock skulked, and John only saw him again when he came back and pulled from his jacket to call his attention. John paid their drinks and followed the teen.

“I know where he’s hiding, John!” Sherlock hissed when they had barely reached the door.

John, face red from the beer and the warmth of the pub, looked at Sherlock agape. How much time had they been inside the pub? Less than half an hour, for sure. Where had Sherlock eavesdropped that data?

Sherlock grinned at seeing his astonished face.

“Don’t worry, I was at the arcade machine, and I heard two girls who were playing billiards. Once you started that conversation about football, everybody seemed to relax and turned again to their normal conversation topics. You have been really helpful!”

“Ha!” John smiled. “Let’s find Lestrade and give him this information, then!”

The boy frowned, letting his grin vanish.

“I don’t think he will pay me any attention. You heard him: if there’s no evidence, for him is exactly the same as if I have just made it up. Not that different from Gregson.”

“Well, at least it seems that you amuse Lestrade… most of the time.”

“Oh, yes, and he even allowed me to see the body! Wasn’t it exciting?”

John chuckled.

“Alright… What do you want to do with the information, then?”

“Isn’t it obvious, John?” Sherlock said with a naughty raise of an eyebrow.

John groaned and followed him again.

Ten minutes later, they were in front of a half ruined apartment building. Most of the windows were broken, but the ones in the first floor had been covered with wood boards, and it seemed to John the typical abandoned building with some squatters and junkies holed up in there. Sherlock took pictures of the door and the plaque of the street and sent them to Lestrade with an explanation, but refused to walk away once done. Instead, he approached the building and jumped the low fence that joined the small patio with the street.

“Sherlock!” John called, whispering.

But the young man ignored him, gluing his back to the walls to blend with the darkness. John lost sight of him; it was already night time, and the patio didn’t have any kind of light. The feeble light of the streetlamp barely illuminated the front fence and the main entrance door, also covered with boards, hence completely useless. John resigned to jump the fence after Sherlock. His leg hurt a little bit, but it wasn’t as stiff as he would have expected.

“John! This way!”

The teacher followed the voice until a hand grabbed his forearm.

“Sherlock…” John saw the boy’s eyes, barely a feet from his, and held his hand. “You are mad, let’s get out of here right now. You don’t want to mess with the kind of people who live here, leave it to the police.”

“I am not afraid. I have you. You will protect me. And I know how to fight.”

“Sherlock…” John sighed.

“I think I have found an unblocked entrance. Let’s see if we can reach the stairs from there.”

John cursed his stubborn brat of a boyfriend and followed him, while mulling over the different ways he could take him out of there. He could just grab his hand and drag him out to the street. Sherlock would probably kick and cry out, alerting all the inhabitants of the building. Or he could phone Mycroft Holmes and he would order Sherlock to go back home unless he wanted his parents to find out about his little excursions and his boyfriend.

While he was still considering the pros and cons of both options, John found himself already climbing up the stairs and following Sherlock across a long corridor with apartment doors at his left. Most of the doors were broken, hanging from their hinges or just lying on the floor, and Sherlock examined briefly inside every gap with the light of his phone. The only visible outcome was a couple of junkies sleeping in one of the tiny apartments. They went back to the stairs while Sherlock texted Lestrade.

_“Nothing in the first floor. SH”_

The stairs to the second floor were tricky, and John was decided to end this adventure before Sherlock wanted to climb to the third one, considering the state of those stairs. He wasn’t risking Sherlock breaking a leg while he was supposedly his responsible adult, no matter how the boy protested.

The outline of the floor was the same of the first one. They skipped the doors that seemed to have been closed for ages and went straight to the half open ones.

“That one, John!”

“It’s closed.”

“But it has been open recently; look at the floor, there’s trails on the dust.”

There was more debris than dust on the floor, but Sherlock was right. The door didn’t budge when they pushed it with all their strength, but Sherlock took out a small pocket knife and the lock opened at once. They stepped in, guided by the light of their phones.

“Someone lives here…” John whispered, and Sherlock nodded.

There were the remains of a meal on a table, and blankets on the ruined sofa, and also some candles only half burnt scattered here and there. Sherlock went back to the door and closed it again. The lock made a light “click”, so John guessed it still worked. _Fantastic_ , he thought with dismay _. We are shut inside._ To make it still worse, they heard voices approaching. A man and a woman. John took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him to the other room when the voices stopped right at the other side of the door. They hid there, in the darkness, with their phones in their hands, and held their breaths until the man and the woman entered the main room and started to move around, still talking.

“…Really, Tom, that was the stupidest thing you have ever done”, the woman was saying. “And God knows you have done a lot!”

“Shut your trap up! The King will compensate me for this, you know that. I’ve been stuck at that fucking lowlife spot for a lifetime. It was my chance to finally go up. The King will give me a spot in a nice place with lots of money coming in, you will see.”

“If you say so…”

The woman’s voice seemed rather dubious. For the sounds, John guessed the man had dropped on the sofa and the woman was preparing a meal. He soon heard a camping gas, the glow lighting the main room with a warm and soft light that reached the room where Sherlock and John were, turning the complete darkness into gloom.

“And what are you going to do if the cops catch you, Tom? Have you considered that?”

“Billy says they haven’t said anything in the evening’s news… And the King will take care of me, even if they catch me. All I have to do is shut my mouth up, and when I’m out again, there will be a good business waiting for me.”

John looked at Sherlock and nodded. He wrote in his phone and showed Sherlock the screen.

_“Text Lestrade again”._

The boy did it. John started to consider if it would be better to jump over the man and reduce him or wait until Lestrade arrived and he did it in an official way… but the decision was taken out of his hands when the main door opened again and some men joined Tom and the woman.

“Billy! I was just talking about you!”

“Ha! That’s why I was sneezing a moment ago, then!”

“Nah, you know I would never talk bad about you!”

“We have brought some beers, and a pizza”, a different voice said.

“Ah, good, we had some noodles, let’s add that pizza. Does it have pepperoni?”

“Of course, Tom, just as you like it!”

 _“How many?”_ John asked Sherlock through his phone screen.

_“Four plus Tom and the woman”._

_That’s a lot_ , John thought, sighing.

 _“So what now? We just wait for Lestrade?”_ John asked.

_“Seems like it”._

Sherlock raised his phone again and showed John Lestrade’s answer:

_“We are on our way. Stay out of danger!”_

_“Thank god”_ , John wrote.

Sherlock nodded. He grabbed John’s hand tightly.

_“I’m glad you are here, John”._

John rolled his eyes and embraced Sherlock. They sat at the door, Sherlock almost sitting on John’s lap, and the boy started to type fast on his phone. John glanced at the words.

_“I’m sorry for snapping at you yesterday. I don’t think you believe in what you told me, though, because there’s no way you can really think that after knowing me for months.”_

John put his hand on top of Sherlock’s phone, and when the boy raised his eyes to look at him, he shook his head. There was a moment and a place to talk about some things, and that wasn’t the one they were right then. Wanting to reassure the boy, John kissed his lips, lightly. Sherlock’s hand reached for his nape and anchored John there, against his eager mouth, and John, who had his focus more on the men’s banal conversation than on what they were doing, suddenly felt how the ruined apartment and the criminals in it vanished, and all that remained was Sherlock, his hands on his scalp, his burning lips, the heat of his body. Something inside his chest crumpled when he thought that he was resigned to losing Sherlock in a few months as much. Sherlock, his brilliant Sherlock, who had become the main reason he got up in the mornings. His warmth shrouded John, eliciting more emotions from him than anybody else in his entire life. And he was giving up? What if he didn’t need to give up on Sherlock? What if there was a way to make this work?

The young man seemed as oblivious to their surroundings as himself, kissing him with abandon, and after a while John felt his hands under his clothes, shuddering. A hand took his and placed it under an untucked shirt, too, and Sherlock’s skin was so soft and hot that John didn’t think to refuse the touch for a moment. He felt a trail of kisses along his neck, and then a wet nibble on his earlobe, and he had to bite his own lips to avoid moaning. He turned his face, looking blindly for Sherlock’s long and slender neck, and once found he mouthed the flesh and sucked at it, not worrying for once about leaving or not hickeys.

A loud bang at the main door startled them.

“Scotland Yard! Please put your hands up and stand up! Don’t make any strange movement or we will shoot, get it?”

The familiar voice of D.I. Lestrade roared through the apartment, and Sherlock and John hurried to get on their feet before his men thought of exploring the second room. John heard a number of cops going inside the apartment and searching the men for hidden weapons. They handcuffed the whole group and made him go out; to a police van, John supposed. When they heard all the steps gone, a voice suddenly called for them.

“Sherlock! Doctor Watson! You there?”

Sherlock walked to the main room, followed by John. Lestrade was at the door, frowning.

“Thank God you are fine, brat. Well, I expect you are right and that was our man. Have you caught any evidence?”

“I have recorded a bit of his conversation with that woman… It’s not fully clear, but I bet even your men can work with that.”

He typed again in his phone and sent the file to Lestrade’s phone. The cop grinned.

“That was clever… too risky, but clever! Okay, now get out of here and come back home, please. Remember: you have not been here, and I haven’t seen you.”

John and Sherlock nodded, and followed the cop out of the building. Once in the street, they walked away discreetly, without a further word to Lestrade, who climbed his car at once. There was a police van, as John had predicted, and they were putting the criminals inside. Sherlock had a big winner grin on his face, and John couldn’t help to chuckle. _This is the most stupid thing I’ve done in a while_ , he thought. _It shouldn’t feel so right. So exhilarated. So alive._  

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

John’s phone chirped with a whatsapp message at eight o’clock in the morning, and while he rubbed his eyes, trying to get awake enough to reach for his phone, he thought, slightly amused, that Sherlock had become his own personal alarm clock. Because of course it was him, as he confirmed with a quick look, smiling lazily.

_“Good morning, John! I hope you are not too tired after last evening. SH.”_

In fact, John would have been grateful for another hour in bed, but given that he was fully awake by now, a nice cup of tea and some toast would be a good second option. He got up from bed and did his morning rituals while typing answers to Sherlock.

Last evening had already become last night by the time John took Sherlock home, although they only stopped for a fast take away after the evening’s events. But the adrenaline had kept John awake for hours in his bed afterwards, and he wondered if it had been the same for Sherlock. It turned out that the boy didn’t have any problem with getting to sleep after facing criminals. _Oh, well, it’s good to be seventeen_ , John chuckled. Sherlock started to insist on visiting him in his flat.

_“You have already seen my house, John, it’s only fair! SH”._

_“Shut up, I only accompanied you to the main door.”_

_“And whose fault is this? I invited you to come in. Now you must reciprocate. SH.”_

_“You are an insufferable brat.”_

_“But you love me all the same. SH.”_

John gulped, but didn’t answer to this. Instead, he finally gave in.

_“Alright, but only a tea, don’t get any odd ideas. Do you know my address?”_

_“Of course I know. SH.”_

_“You little stalker!”_

_“I’ll be there in an hour. SH.”_

John realised he was smiling fondly at his phone.

When Sherlock arrived, John’s flatmate was lying on the sofa, watching the news on the telly, so they went upstairs to his bedroom instead of staying in the sitting room.

“Don’t be very excited”, John warned. “My bedroom is small and absolutely dull.”

“It’s yours, how come it is dull?” Sherlock asked, beaming.

But once there, he looked around, examining the sparse furniture consisting of a single bed, a wardrobe, a desk with a computer and a pile of exercises sheets and books, and two chairs. John chuckled at his disappointed face.

“What did you expect?” he asked his pupil. “I am a very simple man, Sherlock… although it seems you refuse to see it.”

Sherlock sat down on the bed, thoughtful, and John passed him a mug of tea, that he had already prepared and was lying on a tray on his desk. He sat with his own mug on a chair, in front of him, studying his face. Sherlock sipped his tea and finally asked the question he seemed to have been mulling over.

“John… Who was the one who hurt you?”

It took John by surprise. He tried to stutter an evasive, but Sherlock cut him at once.

“There was someone, I know. No one is so self deprecating when it comes to a relationship if they haven’t been deeply hurt before. I want you to trust in me and tell me. Please.”

John stared at his piercing eyes and was about to refuse flatly, when he remembered what the girls had explained him about Sherlock’s past love life. _Oh._ It wasn’t very fair that he knew about Sherlock but the boy was kept in the darkness about his past, was it?

“You are… very straightforward, Sherlock”, he started, hesitant, pausing to wet his dry lips. “Too straightforward. But I trust in you, I do, so it’s okay.” He leaned back on his chair and caressed the rim of his mug with a finger. “I dated a girl in college. At first more as friends than as anything else, but with time it turned more serious… The two of us studied Medicine, had the same friends and shared a flat, so we were always together. By the end of college we got engaged. Then we started our internship, together again. She wanted to specialise in traumatology, I wanted to become a surgeon. It was a really hard year, studying and working long turns in the hospital, and the little time we were alone with each other we only talked about exams and patients. I still think it was that… Because when we finally ended our internship year, she came and told me that she had been dating another man for months, but she didn’t want to say anything until that tough period was over, to avoid making it still harder for me. It was another doctor, of course, a senior one, one of the most brilliant trauma doctors in London.” John finally looked at Sherlock, who was watching him in turn, serious. “I was heartbroken, of course. After six years together, I didn’t expect that turn of events, and I couldn’t understand how she had been capable of dating another man at my back, after all the things we shared…” John shook his head and focused his gaze on his tea again. The words came easier that way. “My family was disappointed, because Terry was part of the family for them, and they blamed me for the break up. They said I was so focused on my work that had neglected her, and perhaps they were right. Either way, I was hurt and angry, so as soon as I could I simply left the hospital duties and signed up with the army.” John raised his eyes to Sherlock’s again, who was still watching him in silence, and added. “Remember you told me I didn’t have a good relationship with my parents because my joining the army? Well, in fact they were relieved of seeing me going, or that’s what I felt right then. Every time we met after Terry and I broke up, my mother started to cry and my father frowned at me and said nothing. So a change of scenery was more than welcomed. And… that’s all.”

“How was she?”

John opened his mouth, agape.

“Terry? Well… she was my best friend, until she wasn’t. Smart. Not as much as you, of course. Nice to look at. Serious. Responsible. She still sends two Christmas postcards to my parents, one for them and another one for me, but we haven’t kept in touch. And really, Sherlock, there isn’t anything else.”

He reached for the boy’s hand and smiled sadly.

“…I don’t know if I’ve given you the explanation you wanted.”

“You did.”

Sherlock tugged at his arm until John joined him on the bed, and they were suddenly holding each other tightly. It was nice, being with Sherlock, his proximity, the scent of his shampoo invading his nostrils. John realised he couldn’t remember how it felt to be hold by Terry. Were her hands warm or cool? How did she smell like? Even the features of her face resembled way more her photographs than John’s actual memories.

“You are not a dull person, John”, Sherlock’s voice mumbled on his ear. “You are far from dull. You are brave, and kind, and a really special, one-of-a-kind person. And I am a little glad to that Terry woman, because thanks to her you are mine now. And I will never let you go, John…”

The doctor felt goosebumps going up his spine. _My genius, enticing, possessive Sherlock…_ , he thought, closing his eyes and enjoying the moment.

It cost him a lot to cut Sherlock’s visit short, but the next day was the first day of school after the Easter holidays, so the prospect of seeing each other daily again had Sherlock in a good mood and he finally went home before lunch. Where he kept sending messages to John during the rest of the day.

* * *

 

The atmosphere in the school after the holidays was rather different than before. John’s pupils were facing their A levels in scarcely two months, and most of them were too excited to sit down in silence during the whole lesson, not to mention the ones who were directly panicking. So suddenly teaching needed all of John’s patience to end the day without snapping at someone.

Sherlock was too confident… as always, and John had to nag him to at least finish all his essays in time and try to cooperate in the team assignments. In the end John got a couple of free lunch times to spend with Mike and Molly in the cafeteria, after months of skipping it. He was glad of listening to their school gossip to vary, and Mike’s jokes were always welcomed, especially after those stressing school days.

“I’m glad to have you back with us, John!” Molly said. “Is Sherlock ill or something?”

Mike frowned at hearing this, but didn’t comment on it.

“No, he’s at the library, finishing an English team project.”

“So… what do you exactly do with Sherlock at lunch time?” she insisted.

John could see Mike studying him with the corner of his eye, and he tried to appear innocent and nonchalant. He shrugged and smiled.

“Not much… I have my lunch at the lab, on my desk, and meanwhile he does some experiments from an old book I gave to him. He barely needs my assistance, to be honest. But I have to be there all the same, haven’t I?”

Molly nodded, clearly still not very convinced.

“But some days you are not in the lab… I saw you in the gym one day, I think?”

John nodded. Should he tell them about the bullying and about how he was training Sherlock to defend himself? He wasn’t sure. He was aware that he was crossing the boundaries with Sherlock even for the public eyes, and he didn’t know how his colleagues would react if he told them. He dreaded the possibility of being denied to keep helping Sherlock any more. But Mike was staring at him with a deep crease between his bushy eyebrows, so he guessed the option of ignoring the question was out of the table.

He told Mike and Molly everything about Adrian and his clique, and about how he was training Sherlock. Afterwards, his colleagues were so shocked and supporting that John felt a lump in his throat, relief seeping through his pores. Patting his back, Mike assured he would have an eye set on those bullies for the rest of the year, and poor Molly seemed about to cry and begged John to keep helping Sherlock. Knowing that at least half of the truth was uncovered and everybody was alright with it took a weight off John.

* * *

 

But every action prompts a reaction, John reflected some days later, when Adrian and six mates of his approached John’s car in the parking lot, when Sherlock and he were saying goodbye to each other. It was in the afternoon, as John had stayed a few hours to get his exams ready. Everybody had already gone home, or was doing extra-curricular activities, but the only ones in sight were the football team, who were too far and busy to notice them. _I don’t think they have seen us kissing_ , John thought, sweating. Being surrounded was bad enough. Knowing that, if he dared to raise his hand towards one of those bullies his teaching career was over, was still worse. By his side, Sherlock clenched his hands and stared at Adrian with his face full of determination.

“Well, well… What do we have here?” Adrian asked in a mocking voice. “Isn’t it the two lovey-doveys holding hands? As if being a sissy wasn’t disgusting enough, the freak had to be the teacher’s pet to the end… I’m going to throw up!”

The others snickered but said nothing. John bit his tongue to avoid retorting, but of course Sherlock couldn’t help himself.

“Leave John out of this! You might feel really threatened by this ‘ _sissy’_ if you need six sidekicks to feel brave enough to face us.”

Adrian’s eyes glowed dangerously. John tried to hold Sherlock’s arm before he stepped forward, but the boy shook him off.

“You know this is between you and me, Adrian.”

“You are right, queer know-it-all… And are you suggesting a one-on-one fight? Because I’m totally in for that.”

He took his jacket off and threw it a few meters away. He took two steps towards Sherlock, and stopped there, as if waiting for the other boy, challenging him. His friends stayed where they were, grinning, and John suddenly felt as if he wasn’t there at all. He felt invisible. Impotent. He was left to watch as Sherlock shook his own jacket down and then walked towards Adrian, looking confident but alert. _Is he ready for this?_ John thought, scared. _If we would have more time… there’s a couple of karate chops I could have taught him…_

“This is the deal”, Sherlock said, loud and clear. “If I win, you leave us alone for the rest of the school year, and you don’t say a word about John to anyone.”

“Ha! And if I win? I want to mop the floor of the whole ground floor of the school with you.”

Sherlock grinned back at him.

“Seems fair. But your mates stay put. Just you and me.”

Adrian looked him over.

“Let’s see what those skinny arms can do, then, freak!”

And he charged against Sherlock. The boy evaded him easily and planted a kick on his back, making him growl. Rubbing his lower back, Adrian hissed and charged again, trying to throw a powerful fist to Sherlock’s jaw. He dodged the hit again and punched the bigger guy on his stomach, following with a knee on his nose. John chuckled, relieved, watching as Sherlock fought the bully with a selection of the hits he had been able to teach him in the previous months, mixing karate with kick-boxing with whatever worked for him. Although being way thinner than Adrian and not as tall as him, he now knew how to use his body and his own weight against his opponent. After a short while, the bully was lying on the parking lot, bleeding from his cut eyebrow, his nose and his mouth, and breathing heavily. His friends fidgeted and avoided to look at him, and they were obviously considering going for Sherlock or running away.

“Sherlock! That’s enough!” John called out, stepping in at last. He let his gaze stroll by the young men’s faces and, after a long stern silence, he said. “This was the last time. From now on, I don’t want to see any of you using violence. Is it clear?” A couple of guys nodded, the rest kept studying the parking lot floor. “Take Adrian home. Explain whatever you want, but leave Sherlock and me out of this. Go!”

The boys moved at once and helped Adrian to his feet. Sherlock stood there, gasping for air, but John thought it was more from the excitement than anything else. He didn’t get any of Adrian’s hits fully. They waited in silence and almost without moving until the clique had disappeared from sight, and then Sherlock finally turned towards John. They looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“Have you seen me, John!” Sherlock exclaimed between giggles. “Have you seen me?”

“Of course I have!” John hugged him tightly. The boy was trembling in his arms, and he had to restraint himself to avoid kissing him right there. “You are great; more than great, you are fantastic!”

“I still can’t believe it.”

John chuckled and remembered for a moment the first time he saw Sherlock: he was being beaten by Adrian and two other guys, and he looked completely helpless. _And look at him now_ , he thought, proudly. He felt a rush of fondness ran over him.

“Sherlock…”, he whispered on the boy’s ear. “Can you get in my car just for a minute? I might explode if I don’t get to kiss you right now.”

And he felt Sherlock beaming without needing to see his face.

* * *

 

The rest of the school year passed as fast and stressing as a hurricane. There were exams, there were evenings of running after Sherlock and yellow tapes and police sirens, there was the anxiety worming inside his guts every time the head teacher crossed his way in the school corridors. He tried to be more distant with Rick, Marcie and Nell to avoid further problems, but he was glad that they were still teaming with Sherlock in most school assignments. All in all, and although he had had an eventful but good year at Greenwood, he couldn’t be happier when one of his applications for another secondary school got accepted. As the summer came closer, John started to spend more time at Greenwood, strolling through the school grounds and bidding farewell to every corner of the building.

The graduation day dawned sunny and rather hot, and soon all the pupils were sweating under their black robes. All the teachers and some volunteers were finishing hanging the decorations in the gym and the school grounds. Greenwood looked colourful and pretty with wreaths in its main door and in every tree. Mike was holding the end of a garland, trying to tie it to a tree, on top of a ladder, and when he looked down his slight fear of heights made him sweat more than the heat.

“Where is John when you need him?” he grunted to himself. Then he raised his voice and call out. “Hey, has someone seen John? Where the hell is he hiding?”

In fact, although nobody had seen him, John was hiding in his favourite spot in the school: the lab. And he wasn’t alone.

“I’m almost _not your pupil_ by now, John”, Sherlock whispered in his ear.

“Don’t pull that on me, kid… We still will see each other at school for one more week…”

John had pushed Sherlock against a low cupboard, and now the teen was half sitting on it, holding his balance by wrapping his long legs around John’s hips. All of John’s patience seemed to slip to the floor along Sherlock’s robe and graduation hat, and the way he was tugging at the boy’s tie to get rid of it was in clear contradiction with his calm words.

“But I am a graduate student now… What’s a week, anyway?”

Sherlock wormed his hand inside the back of John’s pants, and the teacher cursed and sucked the young man’s neck, almost with desperation. A sudden thought made him come back to earth, though.

“Sherlock… Are your parents coming to the graduation? They should be about to arrive.”

“Hmmm… Yes”, Sherlock answered, bucking his hips to meet John’s eager groin and making him gasp.

“But perhaps they are already here, and they are looking for you…”

“Good luck with finding me here, then…”

“Sherlock…” John wanted to push him off and get a bit of space, he really wanted to do it. At least the part of his mind that wasn’t clouded by lust wanted to. But that part was smaller every second. He must find something to stay grounded, to get Sherlock and him out of there and back to the celebrations. “Is your brother coming, too?”

Sherlock froze at hearing him. But he only needed half a minute to go back to kiss John and massage his bum.

“No. I told him to stay put and give us a chance. Besides, he is at work.”

Those words filled John with relief. He wouldn’t have to face that scary man, at least for now. And he didn’t want to think about the next time he would be forced to see Mycroft Holmes, honestly. The thought was fleeting and short-lived, and vanished completely when Sherlock managed to rub again their clothed erections in just the right way. They had never gotten so far, and the tiny part of John’s mind that was screaming that he should stop right then was more difficult to hear by the moment.

“John…” Sherlock breathed in his ear, prompting a full body shudder in the teacher. “What do you want to do with me?”

A hundred images huddled at once on John’s mind, shushing his teeny rational mind completely. Images of things he had imagined doing to Sherlock when it was late at night and he was alone with his mind and his hand.

“Tell me, please”, Sherlock insisted, his breath hot against John’s skin, interrupted by a moan, and then added: “What will do when we are finally able to be alone in your bedroom and without restrictions?”

Sherlock kept rutting against him, and it felt hot and too good to stop by then.

“I will tie your wrists”, John suddenly said, gasping for air.

Sherlock seemed only a bit surprised, but recovering quickly he asked:

“Really? Will you tie me to your bed?”

“No… Perhaps some day. I will have you standing against my bedroom’s door.”

The pressure of Sherlock’s erection against his groin grew harder, and although John wished to touch it ( _grab it lick it mouth it_ ), he contented himself with reaching Sherlock’s nipples under his shirt.

“Oh, that’s… interesting. Cool. Will you have me naked?”

“I will take out your trousers and your underwear, but I’ll leave your shirt on… I will pinch your nipples”, he said, and did so, making Sherlock groan loudly. “Then I will reach for your ass and I will put my fingers in you…”

That, he didn’t act, grounding his hips harder and joining his dicks again instead, and he felt his own about to burst in fire from the friction. Sherlock hid his face on John’s shoulder, moaning softly, and then he increased the strength of his grip on the teacher’s bum and started to move him faster.

“I will turn you to face the door and then I will put my hot cock inside your tight little ass…” Sherlock moaned, sounding almost desperate then, and the sound alone almost triggered his orgasm. He breathed deeply to calm down a little, and kept on talking: “I will put it all the way in, and then I will start pushing and lunging…”

“Will you do it fast and hard?” Sherlock managed to say through his laboured breath. “Until I feel like I’m going to faint because I can’t take it anymore?”

John almost chuckled and shook his head. _Where has he read that?_ , he thought.

“No fainting… It will be painful but at the same time you will feel like you are going to explode from the pleasure.”

“I will love it”, Sherlock stated, arching his back until he almost fell down the cupboard.

John cupped his lower half to keep him in place, and took the chance to rub against him in short but fast thrusts. His orgasm was so close that he could almost touch it with the tips of his fingers, if he reached for it.

“You will”, John reassured Sherlock. “Every moment of it, I swear. Then I will pump your cock at the same time, and it will feel _amazing._ ”

Sherlock anchored his arms around John’s neck and buried his face in his neck again.

“John!” he exclaimed, trembling.

And John wasn’t able to say anything else, because he was suddenly too gone, too wrapped up in pleasure, and he breathed his lover’s name while the complete blankness claimed him. He half managed to roll his hips again, chasing his pleasure until it started to vanish, leaving him with a shuddering gorgeous creature between his arms, and an awful stickiness down at his pants. He kissed Sherlock’s temple and tried to regain his breath.

The young man leaned back in the cupboard, without letting go of John’s shoulders, and offered him a tired smile. His black locks were hanging in disarray, sweated, but he still looked like the most beautiful person ever to John. He smiled back, and leaned in until their foreheads touched.

“I’m grateful for the first time of being forced to wear that stupid black robe over my clothes…” Sherlock muttered, and there was amusement in his voice. “But… what are you going to do about that stain in your trousers, Doc?”

John looked down and a nervous chuckle found his way in his throat.

“Oh, shut up and let’s get cleaned already!” he could only add.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

John looked out the windows and reflected on how that last year had changed him. One year ago, he was about to start his first teaching job for real (after his practise year that he really didn’t count), and was nervous, still fighting a stupid limp and other annoying psychological injuries. He let his gaze wander by the view, consisting on the busy street below and the skyline of Victorian brown-reddish roofs. He turned to look at Sherlock with a fond smile plastered on his face.

The boy, on the other hand, was striding up and down the old apartment, reckless, touching every piece of furniture and commenting of every detail.

“John, I don’t think there’s enough book shelves… And what do you think about the kitchen? Is it big enough? I don’t know if I will have enough space for chemical experiments in there…”

“Relax, Sherlock… And for God’s sake, we are talking about a _kitchen,_ not a lab. You are not supposed to run chemical experiments in it!”

Sherlock turned to hide his crooked grin, but John managed to see part of it.

“Yes… sure”, the young man said.

He climbed up the stairs to the second floor and called out:

“And what are we going to do with the second bedroom? We won’t need it!”

John shushed him as soon as he ran downstairs again, seemingly unable to keep still for a moment.

“Will you keep your voice down? We are supposed to take two bedrooms, because you are seventeen, remember? So for the landlady, who lives downstairs on the ground floor, _please remember_ , that bedroom up there is mine, and the bigger one on the first floor is yours.”

“Let me look again at it!”

Sherlock made a run for the bedroom and he threw himself on it, landing with his arms wide open on the comfortable king-size bed. John followed him, chuckling.

“Is it nice?”

“Oh, yes.”

John leaned on the doorway and watched him, still smiling. Sherlock looked back at him, suddenly serious.

“John. Can you believe we are going to live together?”

“It’s a great step, isn’t it? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather live with someone from college?”

“Sssshhh… According to my parents, my flatmate is a college mate, so everything will be alright. And this flat is almost inside the campus; it’s just a five minutes walk!”

“Criminology, in the end”, John sighed.

“I have tons of subjects about Chemistry, John, don’t grieve about it…” Sherlock mocked him.

The doctor shrugged, not really concerned (although a tiny part of him would have been in ecstasy if Sherlock had chosen Chemistry or Medicine) and walked to the window to check the view: a back patio and more Victorian terraced houses. It was quite nice, in fact. Way better than the view he had at his current apartment.

“And are you sure Mycroft won’t interfere?” he asked.

Sherlock let go a dramatical sigh.

“He says he won’t… but who knows, when it comes to him. The bad news is that now I owe him one, and I’m sure he will have me pay him back.”

John grinned.

“Ha! It can’t be that bad!”

“You don’t know Mycroft…” Sherlock mumbled, distressed. Then he changed his tone and called him in a low whisper: “John. Come nearer.”

The doctor acquiesced and sat down close to Sherlock. Their hands intertwined and the boy gave him a pointed look.

“We should try the bed, don’t you think?”

“Sherlock… We still haven’t signed the contract, and the landlady is downstairs.”

“We are signing the effing contract tomorrow, isn’t it? And Mrs. Hudson is rather deaf. Close the door, and she won’t hear a thing.”

John licked his lips, uneasy. Sherlock’s eyes glowed in excitement. The landlady could come and see them at any given moment, but then they surely would hear her before she reached the door… And wasn’t it thrilling, knowing that someone could interrupt them? He stood up and closed the door firmly.

Sherlock snorted and started unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes fixed on John. Excited, the teacher took his own t-shirt off, too, and drop it to the floor.

During the scarce month of summer holidays they had enjoyed, without leaving the city, they had made advances in their intimacy, of course. Sherlock would had jumped at it, but John remembered fondly his own first months discovering sex, going step by step, and he didn’t want to take that away from Sherlock, those memories that, in time, would be precious for him. So they advanced slowly. It made Sherlock cringe and whine, but he didn’t complain about the outcome. They had started with handjobs, languorously slow, accompanied with sloppy kisses, that some days later evolved into blowjobs, delicious and hot. They had explored each other’s body with the same intent as if they wanted to chart it, and John was sure he would be able to draw it with his eyes closed, given he was a good artist, that wasn’t the case, of course. After that, Sherlock turned really impatient, but John was intent in not skipping the next step. He had been working Sherlock with his fingers for weeks now, until sliding them inside his ass took him only a minute and a squirt of lube. The next day, though, Sherlock’s family was going abroad in a family trip for a week; hence the teen was eager and not looking forward to wait any more.

 _I’m at my limit, too, I must admit_ , John thought while he eased his trousers down his hips and his legs. Sherlock raised his hips and put down his jeans and his underwear in the same pull, dropping them on the floor, on top of his shirt. Completely naked, he grinned and sat up, planting his hands behind him, on the bed covers, and flexing his knees to seat with his legs wide open, offering John a fully pornographic view. Cursing, the teacher hurried to get rid of his pants and socks while his dick reacted with interest at the sight of the curly line of hair going down Sherlock’s navel and the half-mast erection greeting him below. He crawled on his hands and knees across the bed until his lips found Sherlock’s. The boy started to lean back, trying to pull John on top of him, but the teacher stopped the motion, having other ideas. He sat as close to Sherlock as was possible, and then he grabbed one of the boy’s legs and placed it on his lap, shifting still closer and forcing Sherlock to put his other leg around John’s hip. They hold each other for a moment, enjoying the shared breath and the way their chests brushed at every inhale and exhale. John felt Sherlock’s heartbeats under his hands, marvelled at how strong and fast his heart beat. Suddenly, the teen’s lips were on his pulse, sucking, and John closed his eyes and stopped thinking for a while. Feeling through his five senses was better. Much, much better…

Smell. Sherlock’s nice scent of shampoo and cleanliness soon started to mix with the salty sweat of his neck and back, and John breathed it deeply between licks, enjoying it before it got swallowed by the not so lovely smell of their mixed saliva drowning almost completely the rest of scents. Still, there was something spicy there, something musky and heady that turned out to be the fragrance of their sexes, and soon John felt intoxicated by the aroma, but at the same time he couldn’t get enough of it, chasing the scent up and down of Sherlock’s body.

Touch. Of course touch was the predominant sense right then, invading John’s brain until it couldn’t function any more, and all that was left to do was just keep on touching. He had got addicted to Sherlock’s skin during the last months, and then he felt as a junkie getting his fix at last… He caressed every inch of skin that he could reach with his fingers or his lips… and felt at the same time Sherlock’s hands on him, as greedy as his own, caressing lightly at first, then pinching, and rubbing, and scratching, and following with lips sucking on the same abused spot.

Sight. From time to time, John dared to open his eyes, and each time he was faced with Sherlock’s eyes studying him just inches away, forcing him to close them again, overwhelmed. Because it was too much, the amount of emotions in Sherlock’s eyes were too much to cope with right then, a dangerous kaleidoscope in those greyish green orbs that made John’s heart pump loud and painfully.

Taste. It was much better, oh, yes, to let taste guide his acts, leave aside every strong and painful feeling that threatened to choke him to death and content himself with being drowned by the taste of Sherlock, all the while cataloguing the slight differences between the skin of his clavicle and the skin of his wrist, going South and finding all of a sudden a delicious patch in the hollow of his hip, and dipping his tongue there for a moment, enjoying the taste until his own saliva erased everything else. He then chased the musky and bitter taste still farther south, the only one that grew stronger and wouldn’t vanish, no matter the amount of saliva he would put on it.

Hearing. Sherlock started moaning softly and sighing as soon as his breath got laboured. And then, from time to time, his breath got caught and he would gasp, and very soon a litany of ‘ _John_ ’ and _‘Oh, there!_ ’ and some other half-formed incomprehensible words were whispered, and John took a while to realise half of the moans and groans and sobs were, in fact, coming from himself.

When, after a while, he found himself lying on top of Sherlock, the boy had already opened his legs wide and had wrapped John’s hips with them, and was now pushing the teacher’s bum down with his heels, softly but insistent. John opened his eyes and was tempted to close them again, faced with the piercing and solemn gaze of his lover. But, instead, he lowered his face to kiss his lips again. He was about to ask him if he was really ready, but he knew it was a useless question. _What about me?_ , he wondered then. _Am I ready?_ After waiting so much for this, he found himself so wrapped out in his emotions that it was almost scary. He wanted… everything. He wanted to be deep inside of Sherlock, but for the first time he was afraid that that wouldn’t be enough.

He tried to turn his brain off again, because Sherlock, his Sherlock, was waiting for him, frowning slightly at the wait. So he braced himself, one hand on the bed and the other on Sherlock’s hip, and he thrust his body onwards to meet the boy’s heat. He slid inside rather easily, the canal slick with lube and already prepared, pressing against the barrier of muscles and surpassing it, pushing on to the core of Sherlock. The boy shuddered and moaned his name, the pressure of his thighs on John’s sides suddenly tighter. John ran a hand along one of his long legs, whispering reassuring nonsense on the boy’s ear, and took the chance to regain his breath. The overflowing of sensations and the nervousness of being inside of Sherlock for the first time were tricking with his body and he felt his orgasm awfully near all of a sudden, and although when they were finally living together that wouldn’t be a problem at all, he wasn’t seventeen any more, so he needed at least half an hour to go for round two, and sadly they didn’t have so much time right then. An only time would have to suffice until the next week, so he better didn’t ruin it.

He started to move with all the gentleness he could muster, studying Sherlock’s face for any sign of discomfort. The boy had closed his eyes, luckily for John, and kept shaking his head one side and the other. The grip of his thighs on John had slackened at last, and he looked boneless and too gone to react. John licked a trail along his Adam’s apple and down, eliciting a soft moan. Then Sherlock half opened his eyes and gazed at John, and although they were clouded his eyes didn’t lose any of their striking quality for John. He reached for his face with one hand, and Sherlock put his own hand on top, intertwining his fingers.

“John…”

“Is it good?”

The teen nodded.

John leaned in for a short brush of their lips, and focused on finding a pleasurable rhythm for the two of them. He kept watching Sherlock, who had closed his eyes again when he started moving with more purpose, studying the nuances in his breath and his strained face, until he found at last an angle that made the boy jump and open his eyes, startled. John grinned and insisted, keeping the angle and increasing the speed and the force of his shoves. Sherlock started whimpering louder and his hold on John’s hips turned into a vice-grip that made John almost impossible to keep thrusting. But then Sherlock started to buck his hips to meet John’s cock, in a fast and furious rhythm of his own, and John realised Sherlock was really close, and already chasing his orgasm. He quickly took the young man’s dick and started pumping it, watching as Sherlock displayed his body with abandon, his eyes tightly shut, pushing his pelvis onwards to get John’s cock deeper, sweating with the effort between loud grunts. John could barely move his hips, but the way Sherlock writhed and wormed his had him staring in awe. And then the young man arched his back and bucked his hips higher, and let go a growl, and John felt first, and then saw, the white spurts coming from between his own fingers, and the hold on his hips suddenly turning slack again. He lunged in, then, at last allowed again to move, and kept caressing Sherlock’s cock until the teen wailed his hands, unable to speak, but obviously trying to beg him to let go of him.

John’s first thought when he took himself out of Sherlock was finishing with his own hand; he was so close either way… But the sight in front of him was so erotic, Sherlock slumped on the bed with come painting white strips on his stomach, his lips and chin and neck red from all the kisses and love bites starting to take shape on the delicate skin of his thighs and his hips… He couldn’t help himself and kneeled on the bed between Sherlock’s legs, taking hold of those narrow hips and pulling them until they matched like a puzzle piece against his groin. He entered him again, prompting a light half-formed complain, and grunted his way in. He closed his eyes again, focused on his pleasure, and sank deeper and deeper, moving in desperate short thrusts, panting and cursing. And just when the sweetness was starting to overcome him and all his muscles were on fire, threatening to cramp, he cursed himself because again it seemed too little; all the pleasure wasn’t enough, not when what he wanted was to go inside of Sherlock and stay there for a while, not only that little bit of flesh and muscle but the whole of him. He wanted to blend completely with Sherlock, mixing their blood and their bones until they were just one person, one soul, and for a moment, for a single moment that didn’t last more than a heartbeat, he felt he was there, touching Sherlock’s soul with the tip of his fingers, but as fast as the feeling had come, it started to slip between his fingers, and a rush of pleasure bathed him like a wave in the ocean, expected, but despite that still startling.

During the couple of minutes it took him to recover, John was barely conscious of his surroundings; of how exactly had he dropped to the bed or in which posture or anything, except for the grip of Sherlock’s fingers on his own, those had never leaved them. When he felt able to open his eyes, the first thing he saw was Sherlock’s bright eyes fixed on his, watching him openly.

“Don’t close your eyes again”, Sherlock begged… because he sensed John was about to do exactly that, of course.

John managed to smile softly and looked back at Sherlock, caressing with his thumb the long and nimble fingers of the boy.

“John…”

There was hesitance in Sherlock’s voice, and John hummed in answer.

“Can I say now that I love you? I’ve been wanting to tell you for months.”

John’s smile fell, and he felt a lump in his throat and his eyes prickle. He sniffed in and swallowed the lump, turning it into a sweet pain inside his chest, one that was almost unbearable, but that he was glad to bear all the same. He embraced Sherlock tightly, and whispered on his ear:

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

And they rested there, lying down and holding each other, listening to their breaths and heartbeats, and John wondered for a moment if it had been as overwhelming and significant to Sherlock as it had been for him, and how would the teenager cope with it in that case. He tightened his embrace, trying to be reassuring, but soon Sherlock’s voice distracted him, mumbling about the latest cases Lestrade had told him about, and starting to make plans about the move to the flat and about their next future together. The sounds of the city started to creep in, dogs barking and cars horning and voices in the street, and it all seemed real to John all of a sudden: their new life together in London was just about to start, and it was the brightest future he could ever have imagined.


End file.
